Nox
by Sarcymar
Summary: Sequel to "Thanksgiving". Nox is a valuable rescue mare, beloved by a young couple who went missing when ambushed by horse thieves. Audra, Heath, Rivka and Marshal Smith ride into mother lode country to find them and reunite them with Nox. The quest pulls the Barkleys into a standoff with an army Colonel bent on Indian extermination; back at war, Heath's mental health deteriorates.
1. Prologue

_Experience has taught me…that there is no such phenomenon as unmixed tragedy to be found in the world around us. Look where we may, the dark threads and the light cross each other perpetually in the texture of human life._

 _Wilkie Collins_

 _Preface, "No Name"_

 _1862_

 **Stanislaus Mountains, California, April, 1859**

He was running. Running for his life, maybe, but young as he was, Heath already had learned there were worse things than death. The high, eager laughter of the men pursuing him echoed off the trees and rocks that rose up the steep mountain slopes around him, and he knew. There were worse things. He ran, and did not waste an ounce of speed or energy on even a glance behind him.

His sprint between the trees quickly became a scramble on all fours as the grade grew steeper. His chest and muscles burned, his breath coming harsh as he kept moving upward. He cursed the bad luck that had gotten him caught out in this unfamiliar, unexplored part of the mountains. He had no idea what he would find when he crested this ridge. When the three mounted men moved to corner him, back there on the game trail, Heath had fled on instinct into the rocks and then up the grade. He was counting on the terrain to force the men to chase him on foot, and then, he hoped, the mountain would exhaust his pursuers before they could catch up to him.

They couldn't follow on horseback, that part had worked, but these were young men who were coming after him. Twice his age and well more than twice his size, they were feral, hungry and lawless. He could hear they were getting winded as they gave chase, but they were still laughing, still climbing, and still shouting out their lewd and violent promises of what they planned to do to entertain themselves, once they got their hands on his uppity, mongrel hide.

Heath recognized them as part of a recent wave of prospectors that were digging and panning for the vestiges of placer gold in the mountain ravines above and below Strawberry. These itinerant miners had become a predatory presence in the town, when they would come in from their campsites along the river beds.

Such men have a well-developed ability to sense when another is outside the protection of the herd. Not long ago, three of these drifters had stumbled upon the small isolated cabin where Heath lived with his mother Leah, her best friend Rachael, and Hannah, a former slave whom Leah had befriended back in '51 and who had become a de facto mother for all of them. Leah was outdoors alone when the men fell upon her like a pack of hyenas, excited to have discovered such pretty and easy prey.

Strawberry in those days had a sheriff and even a few deputies, but there was no protection for an unnatural and profane family such as Heath's. In the town's eyes, this group of outcasts had forfeited any place of safety or welcome among them. They saw only the unmarried sinner and her bastard son, product of her sin made flesh; they saw that strange, over-educated woman from back East who had no normal womanly interest in a man, but a ferocious devotion to Leah and her whelp; and they saw (but didn't see) a Negro woman who had no rights or place in White society to speak of anyway. On a good day, these four shared a hardscrabble but peaceful existence, and were left to their own to live or die as best as they could manage. On a typical day, the women were shunned or insulted, and Heath could rarely set foot in town without catching a boot or a fist or a broomstick from someone for his trouble. But on a bad day –

Heath came out of the woods with five trout on his line for their dinner and stopped in his tracks, horrified. His mother was fighting hard but losing fast. The men, sensing her flagging strength, were laughing and taunting her, ready to enjoy themselves.

"We've all heard about you, _Miss_ Thomson. This ain't your first rodeo – that pup of yours runnin' wild around town is proof of that. Why you kickin' up such a fuss? C'mon, be friendly now."

Leah struggled and roared at them wordlessly, her voice hoarse with the strain. Heath saw no fear in her eyes, only anger, but he was full to overflowing with fear himself when he ducked inside the cabin and grabbed Leah's shotgun, loading it with numb, shaking fingers. So full up with fear, he realized afterward, that he had no clear memory of running out to the garden and yelling at the men to get away from his Mama, and only a vague memory of the sound of the shotgun when he fired a barrel at one of the men who thought to charge at him. Leah told him about it later, told him one of the men caught some buckshot but that all three had run away under their own steam. All he remembered was the silence afterward and her tears on his face, her warm arms around him, and the terrible heaviness of his guilt for having drawn those monsters down upon his beautiful brave mother. That heaviness, he thought it might crush him, and he wondered if he could become brave and strong like her, enough so he could carry that weight. It was his to carry, he figured, but what he wanted most of all was for his Mama and Rachael and Hannah to be safe and happy. Maybe if he carried it far away from them they could be safe and happy? Was that what he should do?

He didn't come up with an answer to his question that day, or the next, but he continued to think it through. Rachael and Hannah fussed over his mother and discussed plans to keep a closer eye on each other in light of what had almost happened. Bothered by the trouble he had caused his family, Heath hiked out to check a line of snares he had set much further beyond the south fork of the Stanislaus than he'd ever gone before. He was trapping for pelts and food – he caught mostly rabbit, some squirrel, maybe a chickaree – and his spirits rose when he saw how successful he had been this time. Here was something good he could bring home to make life easier for his family. It didn't make up for it all, but it was something. He moved down the line and collected his catch, stringing them so he could carry them over his shoulder. He explored further south and west, setting new snares as he went. It was starting to get dark when he turned to bring his day's catch home.

"See, I told you I saw him coming out this way."

Heath's stomach clenched as he recognized the voice. Mitch Harper. He was a few years older than Heath, but Mitch came from a normal, respectable family. Mitch was a lazy, needy boy with few friends and a mean streak a mile wide, and he had made it a hobby of his to bring trouble down on the Thomson bastard whenever he could. Heath had seen him recently hanging around some of the younger prospectors, trying to curry their favor by buying them sweets and laughing at their crude jokes.

Apparently a better way to make friends with these low-life drifters was to lead them to where the Thomson bastard had disappeared to. Heath turned to see the men that had attacked his Mama, one of them with a bandaged arm, and all three moving to close him in. They dismissed Mitch with a wave, and he rode off with a satisfied grin.

"No shotgun today, hmm, little pup?"

"Not as pretty as his Mama, but almost. This'll be fun."

"I just wanna beat the tar outta him right now for what he did. Then you can have him."

Heath turned and ran. There were a few moments of helpless terror when they were still chasing him on horseback; one of the men cut him off and almost got a grip on the back of his shirt. As it was he tore away two of the rabbits on his string. Heath dodged between boulders and kept going uphill. Heard their hyena laughter as they dismounted and came after him on foot, but Heath seemed to be getting some distance on them, and he started to think he'd be able to get away clean and without losing any more of his catch.

He crested the ridge and skidded to a halt, grabbing a pine trunk for balance. The south face of the ridge dropped away below him, almost vertical in places, sloping far, far down into the dark where he could hear a river flowing.

"Hey, puppy, the farther you make us chase you the more you're going to pay at the end, you know that, don't you?" The sing song threat curled out of the woods behind him. They were coming closer now.

Heath cursed and ran as best he could along the top of the ridge, frantically seeking a safe path forward. A detached, irrepressible train of observation ran quietly along in the back of his thoughts, analyzing the topography, asking questions, drawing a map in his mind. The crest descended as he moved westerly, but the south face became even more rocky and steep, until finally he found himself at the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go. Unseen water moved at the bottom of the ravine, he could hear it, but the shadows were deep and dark.

 _That must be the Tuolumne down there,_ he thought. He'd been wondering how much of a hike from home it would be to reach the north fork. He'd wanted to scout it out for fishing and trapping. _Well, now you know. Great lot of good it's gonna do you now, Heath._

He did glance behind him then. Saw them approaching between the trees. He looked back down into the ravine and considered his choices. If he jumped, he would probably die. If those men caught him, he would not be able to stop them from doing what they wanted, and they would probably kill him anyway.

Heath had met death before – his Uncle Matt's fists had introduced him to that reality at an early age. But this was the first time, he realized, that he had a choice. In fact, he **_had_** to choose, and this made him simultaneously sad and angry. Sad, because either way, he couldn't bring his catch home to his family and see them smile; angry, because he hadn't even turned eleven years old yet, and it really wasn't much of a choice at all.

The men were close enough now he could see the laughing violence in their eyes, and he made his decision. He roared his rage at them, his hands clenched into fists, the faces of the family he loved before him in his mind. Then he jumped.

 **Barkley Ranch, November, 1874**

Heath sat up in bed with a gasp, his heart racing, his mind full of fear and falling and darkness and water. The sound of his ten-year-old rage was still ringing in his ears, and he wondered if he had cried out in his sleep. He drew up his knees and rested his head on them, trying to settle himself down and stop shaking. He waited for the myriad aches and pains of his body – all of which had woken up right along with him – to ease a bit into the background.

Beside him, Rivka stirred and sat up, wrapping her arms around him. Her long dark hair caressed his back and gave him pleasant chills as she laid her head on his shoulder.

"Bad dream, love?"

"Yeah."

"From when?"

"Long time back. When I was a kid, before the war. Haven't thought about it in a while. I wonder why n-–" He stopped abruptly, staring at the bedsheets rumpled up in front of him.

"Heath? What is it?"

Thoughtfully, he reached out and ran his hand gently over the ridges and valleys created by the sheets and blankets.

"The Tuolumne. I wonder – if they did get away – they would have followed the Tuolumne."

"Show me what you mean," she said, her head still on his shoulder.

He moved the sheets to make a plateau and then two diverging valleys, separated by a ridge that began steep and sharp but grew wide and broad as it descended.

"This is the western slope of the Sierra. We're roughly here. This is Pinecrest Lake above Strawberry. The trail the two violinists took when they left Hannah's house follows the South Fork of the Stanislaus River. Jasper ambushed Peter and Ilsa and stole their horse right about – here." He pointed to a spot on the north face of the ridge. "Nox is a very protective horse. She would have fought to defend them from Jasper – it's possible she gave them a chance to get away. I keep thinking about it, picturing it, trying to imagine which way they would have run. If they did survive, where would they have ended up? That must be why that memory is pushing in now, don't you think? I climbed that ridge – no, I ran for my life up that ridge, and I found myself in the Tuolumne."

Rivka nodded. "And the Tuolumne ends up down near Sonora, where John got a lead on an unusually skilled, itinerant violinist playing at someone's wedding. It fits."

Heath rubbed his eyes and sighed. "And as you so tactfully just pointed out, we're planning to ride to Sonora today anyway, so no need for nightmares to tell us which way to go." He rested his knuckles against his mouth as he frowned down at the topography of the bed, frustrated with himself. "Sorry I woke you."

"What time is it, love?" She knew he had no need of a clock.

"3:30."

"That's good. You slept almost three straight hours. Next thing you know you're going to actually get a decent night's sleep. I'm not sure what you're going to do with all that extra energy. Maybe you'll get back to being able to beat me at chess every once in a while."

He turned away from his contemplation of the sheets and took her in his arms. He smiled down into her dark eyes. "That's not the first thing that comes to my mind to do, darlin'."

She kissed him. "Go back to sleep, cowboy. We've got a busy day ahead."


	2. Chapter 1 - What Fire is Yours

_The food of hope  
_ _Is meditated action; robbed of this  
_ _Her sole support, she languishes and dies.  
_ _We perish also; for we live by hope  
_ _And by desire; we see by the glad light  
_ _And breathe the sweet air of futurity;  
_ _And so we live, or else we have no life._

 _William Wordsworth, "The Excursion"_

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, April, 1859_**

"Where is he? Rachael, he should've been home hours ago." Leah stared into the woods, wishing she could force the darkness to reveal her son. Her stomach was in knots, her knuckles white where she gripped the rail of the back porch. "God, Rachael, where is he…?"

Rachael came to stand behind her, deeply worried herself, but trying for a calming tone of voice for Leah's sake. "He's come in late before. Maybe it's just taking him longer. He said the other day he'd been scouting further south for some better trapping grounds –"

Leah shook her head. "He was upset. He was trying to hide it, but he was so scared yesterday when those men – when he chased them off –" Her voice grew rough as she held back tears. "He thinks it was his fault. I know he does. **_You_** know he does – he's just like you that way, Rachael, and just as stubborn. And he just won't hear me tell him otherwise. He was upset, and he's just a boy, and I wish he was home –" She broke down, and turned, sobbing, to hide her face against Rachael's shoulder. Rachael held her as she wept, murmuring words to let her know she was not alone, while her eyes scanned the woods, watching, searching.

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, November, 1874_**

The sky was growing light, but the winter sun was still well below the mountains on the eastern horizon when Hannah saw the buggy approaching from The Big House, as she had come to call it. She had settled in nicely in this cabin that was her new home. It was the biggest, nicest structure she'd ever been able to call her own, and she couldn't help but laugh every time she considered the fact that this was a line shack, one of several on this spread, and really just a step up from a shed by Barkley standards.

This cabin – _her_ cabin – was nestled prettily among some scattered oaks on the rising pasture land north of the Big House. She had chosen it because this was the section of the Barkley spread that would eventually be Heath's to build up and manage. He and Audra had been working together to develop the horse breeding and training enterprise, and from her front door, Hannah could see the beautiful new barn and the expanding reach of training paddocks and fenced in pastures.

Behind her, sheltered within another cluster of oaks, were the headstones they had brought down from Strawberry. They marked not a burial place, but a place to remember, and that seemed right to Hannah. Leah and Rachael, remembered side by side, as they should be; the markers resting in that grove where she, and Heath, and Heath's family, and his children, God willing, could visit and remember. Heath had said he wanted to build a home for Rivka and himself up on that pretty hill just beyond that grove. Hannah smiled. Rivka could be tough on Heath, but she loved and steadied and strengthened him, and in him Hannah could see a slow, flickering return of joy and hope and belief in himself that had been near extinguished these past months.

Hannah's eyes were still sharp, for distance at least. Though still a ways off, she could see the four passengers coming from the house. There was Victoria, driving the buggy. Her petite form and white hair made her easy to identify, but it was the way she moved in the world that Hannah admired; more than just strong or intelligent, to Hannah she seemed **_awake_** , a woman who was present in the moment and paying attention.

Unknown to Hannah, it was precisely that quality of Victoria's that had captured Marshal John Smith's heart the moment he first saw her. He sat beside her now in the buggy, long-limbed and relaxed, an easy arm around her shoulders as he leaned back to exchange words with Audra and Rivka in the back seat. Victoria's _presence_ , coupled with her beauty and almost ferocious bravery, had won his devotion in an instant. As Victoria said herself once, being tall, handsome, and intelligent only gets a man's foot in the door. His devotion was what won her heart. Hannah suspected, too, that the trust and love that had grown over the months between John and Heath also opened Victoria's heart to the idea of bringing another man into her life to stand with her as a partner. Never one to waste time when she saw her path forward, Victoria married John in an impromptu, champagne-soaked ceremony just a few days ago, to the amused surprise of her children. Hannah laughed to herself, remembering.

 _Well,_ thought Hannah, _the boys were amused. Audra was not amused, not at all, not at the time._

Was it because she was the youngest, or because she was the only girl? For whatever reason, Audra had been on her guard with Marshal Smith from the beginning, taking his measure and watching him with the probationary eye of a teenager. For his part, John had raised two children pretty much on his own, being a widower; he was a realistic man, and he was willing to meet Audra where she stood and work to gain her trust. It was to that end that he had lent himself to this mission of hers, to find Nox's missing owners, though he'd be the first to admit he had been drawn in to the unfolding of Nox's story as much as anyone in the family.

For the Barkleys, it had begun with the horse. Audra had discovered the mare abandoned at the county fair, sold to the auctioneer for a few dollars by some shady men who had found her in Strawberry and tried to use her to win a pulling competition. Nox was, by then, beaten, starved, and crazed with what they now knew was grief and trauma; each moment she was either fighting off everything around her or standing frozen in fear. Audra, being Audra, had rescued her and brought her home to the family ranch. Little by little she set about bringing Nox back to health and the beginnings of trust. So too, being Audra, she could not help but see that her brother Heath was in much the same condition as her suffering horse. Unlike the horse, however, Heath was getting steadily worse. Finally, a few weeks ago, with a sister's wisdom of intuition, Audra asked Heath to help her with Nox. She knew he would give himself to the task as he did for most everything, and as she hoped, in the process, it seemed to help him begin to recover.

The two of them had done well with Nox. Her recovery was dramatic, and her many scars notwithstanding, she had been restored to her former strength and beauty: a graceful purebred draft horse, she was 17 hands tall, glossy black and muscular. But as they were rehabilitating her, Audra and Heath decided to bring Nox back to Strawberry to see what more they could learn of her history. Heath was coming up in any case to see her, Hannah knew, and it had taken them all by surprise to find that it was with Hannah herself that they would pick up the trail of Nox's story. Was it only just over a week ago? Hannah thought back on it, the day Heath and Audra - with their two brothers Nick and Jarrod - came to her in Strawberry, and she told them what she knew of where Peter and Ilsa had come from, and how they had been lost.

* * *

 _They had taken shelter in her home for only a single night, in August, three months ago. Their unexpected and strange arrival had portended tragedy. Hannah had sensed danger at the time, and feared for them as their wagon rolled out of sight back down the trail the next morning. She came to know the danger for a truth some days later, from the talk in town._

 _All summer Hannah had been oppressed with a feeling that the mountains were full of malevolent forces. She worried for Heath, knowing that he had ridden out with his brother Nick to trek across the Sierras to Nevada. Then in July, the news reports and the gleeful rumors began. Leah Thomson's brat, the bastard who presumed to be a Barkley, had been locked up for rustling. He was being tried for murder. He had escaped and killed a whole posse of lawmen. He was a war-crazed killer, he was a murderous gold-digging opportunist, blackmailing a respectable family. Citizen's bands were tracking him all through the eastern hills with their ropes at the ready._

 _These stories were shouted with laughter over whiskey and beer in the saloon, as bets were taken over the time and manner of the violent death soon to come to Leah's son._

 _Hannah moved unnoticed through these scenes, trying to hear the truth behind the leering speculation, and would come back home feeling as though she had been swimming in sewage for all the meanness and cruelty in their words._

 _It was during this ominous time that Peter, Elsinore, and Nox appeared, emerging slowly up the trail to Hannah's house with a small covered wagon in tow. They had been preceded, for at least five or ten minutes, by the sound of a violin – in stops and starts, interrupted by animated debate – playing a complex melody. The tune was completely unfamiliar to Hannah, and she could at most categorize it as "classical", which was a term she had heard applied to that brand of music that came from Europe, and was understood and enjoyed only by wealthy city-dwellers and university professors._

 _Hannah was outside, hanging wet laundry on a line to dry in the fitful, humid August breeze. She paused in her task, first to listen to the remarkable music drifting up the trail, then to puzzle over the energetic conversation. There were two voices: a man, with a pleasant light tenor and a gentle tone, and a woman, whose voice and frequent laughter were humorously hoarse and fluid. Hannah could not understand what they were saying. At first she thought this was because the topic was foreign to her, but she then realized the couple was not speaking English._

 _A moment later the covered wagon rolled into view, gradually emerging from the variegated light and shadow of the pine wood. A smile spread across her face as she considered the strange sight. The wagon was sedately and smoothly drawn along by Nox. Her black coat gleamed in the sun, her voluminous wavy mane was groomed and flowing over her shoulders, and the feathered hair above her fetlocks accentuated her smooth, high-stepping gait the way evening gloves can draw the eye to a woman's graceful arms and shoulders. She drew the rustic, simple wagon forward along the dusty trail, her grace and elegant bearing investing it all with dignity and significance._

 _Riding upon the mare's back, but facing backward toward the driver, was a slim, long-limbed young woman with a head of wild blonde hair barely tamed into a coil on top of her head. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat and her laughter, her cotton dress was hiked up above her knees as she sat astride the mare, and she was playing a violin. The lively debate about the best way to play the melody was being carried on with the driver of the wagon: a clean-shaven young man with a mop of brown hair that looked like it hadn't been cut in a year. To Hannah's delight, just as they came fully into view, the young man reached behind him to pull out another violin, and began to play in order to more effectively argue his point as to the proper phrasing of the piece._

 _It occurred to Hannah that these two needed such a responsible and dignified horse to pull their wagon, because neither of them were driving or even paying the least bit of attention to where they were going. Nox brought them precisely up to the front of Hannah's house and stopped._

 _"What is that music you're playing?" Hannah thought that seemed a reasonable greeting for such an odd arrival._

 _The girl gave her a sunny, breathless smile. "Brahms," she said, in faintly accented English. "String Quartet No. 2 in A minor. He wrote it just last year. I found sheet music for it back in St. Louis. We want to play it as a duet, because, well –" she shrugged. "Unless you play cello? Or viola?"_

 _Hannah laughed. "Child, I don't think I even know what a cello is. But I can see you two love your music. What brings you up this way? Your horse here seems to think this is where you should be right now."_

 _The young man spoke up. "Yes, Nox often makes such decisions for us," he said a bit sheepishly. "Though we were trying to get off the main trail and find a place to camp. I didn't think we'd find a homestead up this way. I'm sorry if we've bothered you."_

 _Hannah was intrigued by this couple, and she certainly sensed no threat from either of them. "No bother at all. If you'd like to stay here for the night, you can water your beautiful mare over there and get washed up yourselves by the back door."_

 _And so, just like that, Hannah had guests for the evening, and was glad for the company. Their youth and open, easy manner lifted some of her loneliness for the time, and distracted her from her pervasive disquietude._

 _Over evening chores and dinner, she gathered the facts of them: first of all, they were Dutch, hence the unintelligible conversation that sounded almost like English. They were husband and wife for almost two years, and had travelled together all the way from the northern part of the state of New York. Elsinore – Peter called her Ilsa – came from a wealthy family known for making fortunes in shipping, and for breeding expensive horses, especially the line of Friesian draft horses such as Nox._

 _"I do not love my family's way of life. I love music. I love Peter. And I love horses," Ilsa admitted, "but I especially love Nox. She comes from a champion bloodline, but she was born with that white blaze, which she could pass on to a foal – so they decided she was worthless for breeding." She broke out into a huge smile. "So that meant I could have her. I raised her from a baby. I would play violin while I'd ride her through the woods, because my family didn't want to hear me practice. Nox loves music. Her real name is Nachtmuzik, Nox for short."_

 _Hannah tried out the pronunciation. Peter tried to help. "It should sound a little like you are clearing your throat," he said, helpfully. "The word means literally night-music, but it's used to mean serenade, a song one would play in the evening, to entertain, or romance. Nox is named after a famous chamber piece written by Mozart."_

 _As their story unfolded, Ilsa told Hannah that her loves - of music, and Peter, and Nox - brought her eventually into direct conflict with the will of her family. Peter came from a working class family; they met through their study of violin. Both families declared them fools, and they did appear to be fools, in love and full of wanderlust. They took their violins, their beautiful mare – who, they informed Hannah, was ferociously protective - and the shoemaking/leatherworking skills learned from Peter's family – and they set out across the country with no firm destination in mind. They earned money playing music when they could, or by cobbling and leatherworking when they had to. Nox brought them across the whole wide country, out under the open sky, all three miraculously unscathed. Ilsa kept Nox groomed and healthy, and Nox drew them along with grace and beauty._

 _Unscathed, that is, until they reached Strawberry. Nox always drew attention wherever they travelled, but now she had drawn the eye of a greedy, bored, murderous rustler by the name of Jasper._

 _Jasper offered to buy the horse from the couple, but offered such a paltry sum that even Peter laughed. Jasper became aggressive, though not quite threatening, as the conversation did not go as he wanted. With an effort and barely containing himself, he retreated to confer with his gang and plan another approach. Peter and Ilsa, still light-hearted, nevertheless did perceive the possibility of trouble in that interaction, and tried to think of ways not to be caught out alone on the trail, in case Jasper pursued them. Hence their detour off the trail up to Hannah's place._

 _This part of their story filled Hannah with dread, for she knew quite well who – and what - Jasper was. As she helped Peter and Ilsa get settled in for the night, she worried deeply for the couple's safety, if Jasper had decided to get that horse._

 _The visitors left in the morning. Already by an hour after sunup the day was hot and unusually humid for this mountain elevation. Peter and Ilsa were eager to continue their trek westward; as they had traversed the Sierra, they envisioned the broad central valley of California as an emerald carpet, rolled out to lead them to their first glimpse of the Pacific._

 _Their idea was to make their meandering way via Sacramento to San Francisco, seeking out other musicians and composers. As violinists, Ilsa and Peter both preferred the intimacy and interaction of chamber music, but they were eager to explore all the possible musical venues they might encounter. Opera was hugely popular, and they expected to find orchestral opportunities in the growing cities. They talked excitedly about the musical community they hoped to discover in the booming metropolis of San Francisco, and then in the next sentence would laugh over how much they were enjoying the rustic life of wandering minstrels._

 _Hannah was charmed by them – how could she not be? Their journey was so different from Hannah's own coming of age – the brutal loss of her child, her escape from slavery, her solitary flight westward – that they seemed almost otherworldly. In the gloom of that fearful summer the brightness of their untroubled optimism was blinding; Hannah wondered if she could trust her own sight. She questioned the danger she sensed, as they prepared to leave._

 _"They were so sure they'd be safe. So innocent. And I'd been so stirred up with fears all summer, I thought, maybe I am making too much of this. They'd come so far on their own._

 _"But I didn't live through what I've lived through by not listening to myself, and I had a bad feeling about them getting back on the trail. I tried to convince them to stay. Lord knows I tried. I told them they should wait, that I could keep them hidden until Jasper moved on, but even so, they wouldn't listen. They had their eyes on the horizon."_

 _Ilsa hung from the side of the wagon to wave goodbye as they descended back down to the main trail. Hannah watched until they passed into the dark green pine shadows and were lost to view. The rising dust of their passage sparkled briefly in the morning sunshine, lingered, then settled to the ground._

 _A few days later, Hannah made her usual trip to town, ostensibly to pick up a supply of rice and beans and a few other staples. Those days, when she hiked up to Strawberry, mostly what she aimed to do was listen, hoping for news of Heath. What she heard each time seemed to go from bad to worse, and each time, she came home feeling more alone, and more troubled in her mind._

 _She had begun to hope, though, that perhaps the two young ones had made their way safely out of the mountains. She'd heard no talk about them since they left, though they certainly drew notice in their passing through town. Peter had told her over dinner that they had played some music at the general store in exchange for some food and supplies, and had drawn as big an audience as one could muster in a place like Strawberry. And so, on this still, humid, hazy day, Hannah carried hope with her like a delicate, fragile treasure. Her errands completed, she found a shady spot outside by a back window of the saloon where she could rest her feet, sip her well water, and listen to the talk inside._

 _Unfortunately, there was no good news coming. Talk and commotion could be heard from the window, as a group of men arrived. Several out-of-town deputies swaggered into the saloon, fresh from hunting a rustler, Jasper by name, who had been hitting a few ranches around Sonora and had made the mistake of wounding the son of a local circuit judge. The posse tracked Jasper and his gang up into the hills, and had ridden out with some men from Strawberry to find the rustlers' camp._

 _Hannah sat up and listened, her mouth dry with the taste of dread._

 _"What happened? You find that weasel's camp?"_

 _"Oh yeah, we found it all right. Deserted. What a mess." They now had the complete attention of everyone in the saloon, and that of the woman outside the window._

 _"Looked like a bloody battlefield. We found that covered wagon that those two young'uns drove, the violin players, remember? Jasper had been after them for that fancy black mare, to buy her – looks like he decided to just take her instead."_

 _"What do you mean, battlefield?"_

 _"The wagon was all shot full of holes, ransacked, and then burned, and the ground was all torn up like a herd of elk had come through. Jasper had a few small shelters built out there, and there was a shed, no windows, more like a big box – I'm thinking they shut the mare up in there 'cause it all looked like she had put up a hell of a fight. That box was bashed all to hell on the inside, blood, and hair, and splinters, and hoofmarks like she went crazy in there – or was in there for a long time – or both." The deputy sounded horrified._

 _"And those two young'uns? What about them?"_

 _"Dunno. Dead, most likely. We didn't go looking too long for bodies – the way that wagon was shot up – who could've survived that?"_

 _Learning of the tragedy, and already in a torment of worry for Heath, it was as if she had been struck a near-fatal wound by a blade so sharp and swift she hardly sensed it pass through her. Menace was moving in the air, darkening the days with foreboding, and scouring Hannah's sleep with nightmares and memories of loss and flight and fear. As a lightning strike from a passing storm can obliterate an unwary traveler, so the fate of the Peter and Ilsa seemed born out of the atmosphere of brooding cruelty that had lowered over the mountains all that summer, striking the two travelers aside in a flash of violence._

* * *

Hannah had no more news of the young couple after that summer day. Nor any news of the horse, until that morning just a week ago when she had again heard travelers approaching. This time, praise God, it was her boy Heath, riding home to her at last, galloping toward her and then running to pick her up and spin her around. She felt joy and relief at seeing him again, and if he was not _well_ , exactly, he was at least safe and alive, and – Lord have mercy - traveling with two brothers and a sister at his side.

These were half-brothers and a half-sister, Tom Barkley's legitimate children, Hannah understood this. Seeing them for the first time together, though, the feeling of family was surprisingly strong.

It was when she turned to be introduced to these new siblings that she saw the horse hitched to their buckboard. Hannah stopped in surprise, staring at the big black mare.

"How is it you have Nox?" she had asked. "How did she come to you?"

"Nox?" Heath said.

"Yes, the mare – oh, such a sad thing, what happened to that family. I wondered what became of her –"

So Hannah came to know that what she had witnessed in August was only the beginning, and that somehow the horse, at least, had found a safe harbor. The young couple, however, had been lost, and Hannah was uneasy at first about the mare's reappearance now on her doorstep. Was this a cause for hope of good news? Or a sign of more death to come? After so many months spent in worry for Heath's very survival, Hannah could not initially shake a fear that this dark horse was a death spirit, a reaper haunting her boy, maybe granting him one last visit home before she took him away.

But as she considered the four young people who sat around her that evening up in the mountains, waiting for her to speak, Hannah felt _that_ fear, at least, fading. How not? What a miraculous thing, these four: Here was her Heath, finding his way back from the valley of the shadow of death; and here with him, two brothers and a sister who had been unknown to him not even two years ago. They had fought in that dark place at his side, and they were at his side now as he came home to her.

Heath was not well, this was clear to her from the moment she saw him riding to her out of the woods. He was near broken, truth be told, and she feared for him still, but she could sense the green life in him wanting to reach out and break through his battered and scarred exterior. Hannah gave thanks to see how he drew strength from his three siblings.

These brothers, this sister, now – their presence filled to bursting the tiny rough cabin where Heath had grown up. These three were powerful, Hannah thought, overflowing with the vital energy of children raised with all the love and nourishment and challenge and expectation they could need. They knew themselves to be strong, well-fed, and fortunate; the fundamental safety of their upbringing allowed each of them, in their own way, to be brave and just, seeking out and accepting the responsibilities that such good fortune assigns.

Hannah closed her eyes for a moment, remembering them circled around her. They had seemed to balance each other like the points of a compass. Audra, blazing in her compassion, like a sunrise in the Spring; Nicholas, as unruly, dangerous, life-giving and celebratory as a leaping bonfire; Jarrod, the bright ice-melting winter sun in a crystal blue sky, crisp and clear-sighted.

 _And Heath,_ Hannah wondered, _Heath, where do you fit in here, child? What fire is yours?_

Back in the present moment, she heard Nike whinny in greeting, and she opened her eyes. Riding Charger at an easy lope, Heath was on his way over from the barn, leading Nike, Nox, and Scout, John's tall dun gelding. Charger was fussing a bit at the slow pace. He had been left behind for the trip to Strawberry and he was antsy, and besides he wanted very much to show off for the mares. Hannah could hear Heath firmly but gently telling the colt to settle down.

Heath had taken him out for a run last night, mumbling about how it was for Charger to blow off some steam, but Hannah was sure it wasn't the horse that needed calming. John, Audra, Rivka and Heath had spent some time visiting with Hannah yesterday afternoon, to discuss their plans for the trip the next day. The Marshal had shared with them what little he had learned from questioning Jasper and Jinks, who were still in the Stockton jail. Hannah hadn't listened too closely to that part – the two rustlers blew smoke and lies in response to Smith's questions – and soon the talk in the cabin had returned to speculation about how the couple was ambushed and the horse boxed up, and whether Peter and Ilsa could possibly have survived. Heath had become restless and distracted. Eventually the sound of the wood fire crackling caused him to flinch, at which point he abruptly got up and excused himself. A few minutes later they saw him tearing off on Charger, letting the horse go just as fast as he wanted.

Rivka waited at Hannah's until very late, when Heath finally came back, walking slow out of the dark. Charger had a good sweat, and Heath was so sore he could barely walk or stand up straight once he slid out of the saddle. He was silent, his face drawn, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. Rivka walked out to meet him and put her arms around him, and he just stood there for a long while, holding her, his head bowed.

Hannah had nodded to herself, glad he was back, glad for Rivka's presence, but she was fearful still for her boy.

 _Heath, where do you fit? I've seen each of those fires burning in you at one time or another, over the years. Right now though – right now, you're the sun hanging low over the ocean, burning orange-red. You can see past the dark curve of the world from where you are; Death is right behind you, just out of our sight. Keep your eyes on us, child. Keep your eyes on us._


	3. Chapter 2 - Jumping Off

_Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you._

 _Ovid_

 _The Poems of Exile_

* * *

 ** _North Fork, Tuolumne River, April 1859_**

Rage and grief had come roaring up into him, enough to shatter the paralysis of fear that would have trapped him where he stood. Rage enough to move and scream at the sky; grief enough for a child to make his choice and throw himself away.

That surging flood filled him, buried him, took up all the space inside him and then pushed him aside. Shoved him right out of himself into a numb and empty place, and held him there at arm's length. Distantly, he thought, it was all so much bigger than him. _I don't think I'_ _ll ever be big enough – will I -?_

He had become a spectator commanding a body not his own. He made himself move, and felt nothing now but a terrible weight of failure.

 _Mama, I'm sorry_

 _I wish at least I could take all your burdens far away with me_

He jumped out into nothing.

Wind and silence, a flash of orange blue, a glimpse of peaceful sunset sky.

 _Set you free if I could_

 _I just wish I was home. I wish -_

He fell like a stone.

Then came crashing darkness, the angry chaos of splintering wood, whipping branches, and cracking, battering pain.

Rock, and water, and cold, and dark. Stillness.

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, November, 1874_**

John Smith exchanged a few last words with his fellow passengers as they rolled up to Hannah's cabin, and then hopped easily down from the still-moving buggy to join Heath by the saddled horses. He noted the fact that Scout's hooves were freshly trimmed and shod, his tack clean and buffed to a shine. Circling the tethered horses, he saw the same was true for all four animals. He shook his head, wondered just how early Heath had been out to the barn that morning.

"So, tell me, Heath – who gets credit for the excellent presentation of these horses? The insomniac? Or the fastest smithy and outfitter in Calaveras County?"

Heath chuckled, his focus on adjusting a strap on the jaquima he had fashioned for Nox. "Probably a little bit of both. Think of it as a team effort."

John leaned back against the rail, glad to hear the ease and humor in Heath's voice. He was glad, too, to see Heath was wearing his sidearm, and had equipped his saddle with two scabbards, one for his rifle, and one for his longbow and arrows. He thought that was a good sign. "You look like you got some rest, even with your midnight run on Charger," he commented.

His casual tone belied how much that sudden flight had worried John last night. He'd wanted to ride out after him, but Rivka had convinced him to take Audra back to the house instead, saying she would wait there for Heath. John wanted to ask more about it, this morning, but now wasn't the time. He could see Heath looking for something to say - starting to apologize, probably – so he spoke first.

"So listen, Heath, I talked to Jarrod last night. He and the prosecutor – what's his name, Burns, Martin Burns, I think – turns out they had a whole lot more luck than I did getting information from those two jackals in the Stockton jail." He had Heath's attention now. He looked up, listening.

"How? What did they find out?"

"Seems Jarrod emphasized to Burns that our interest in this missing couple goes beyond just an animal rescue mission; that in fact you and I were proceeding to Sonora on a serious criminal investigation; and that the results of that investigation were highly relevant to his current case and would most certainly land on the prosecutor's desk for his attention in the near future. With that perspective, Burns was more than willing to apply some pressure on our two felons to encourage their cooperation, using a few rather – um, persuasive ideas from Jarrod."

"Persuasive?"

"I fill you in some other time. Let me just say that one suggestion involved a motion for _in situ_ discovery and deposition that would have required a great deal of rough wagon travel for Jasper and his broken legs." John nodded at Heath's amused reaction. "You know, it occurs to me that you may have been lucky not having Jarrod as your older brother growing up. He's got a diabolical streak to his imagination. I can't even speculate what Nick was up against when he had a 15-year-old Jarrod ruling his world."

Heath grinned. "Guess we should all be thankful he's such a civilized man."

"You speak the truth. In any case, Burns also made a recommendation that I think is a good one." John pulled a flash of silver from his coat pocket and tossed it to Heath, who caught it on reflex. He looked down for a long moment at the Deputy Marshal star he held in his hand. Then he looked back up at John, his expression doubtful and apprehensive.

"John, I'm not – I mean, don't you think –"

"Look, Heath, first of all, I know law enforcement isn't your goal in life, so we're not talking about you agreeing to some permanent career change."

"Sure, but –"

"You're more than qualified, and I'm going to need you. Aside from finding our missing violinists, I have recruiting, organizing, and training to get started on up in Sonora, right? We've talked about it. I know you've agreed to help without any kind of official status, but there's a lot to get done, and believe me, showing up with a Deputy Marshal at my elbow goes a long way to getting folks' cooperation and undivided attention. Greases the wheels, so to speak - as you might well remember, son, having been on the receiving end of my crew not so long ago."

"I remember," Heath said grimly, squinting against a painfully clear image of the first time he and John met.

 _He could feel those narrowed grey eyes on him as Smith studied him, looking him over for an uncomfortably long moment. Assessing his fugitive. Assessing the crime scene._

 _"Unlike the warden there, you, Mr. Barkley, **are** under arrest. Please surrender your firearms and any other weapons to Deputy Marshal Ramos." _

_Ramos, appearing at Smith's elbow. Efficiently collecting Heath's gun belt, rifle, and boot knife. Holding up a pair of handcuffs._

 _"Please place your hands behind you, sir."_

Heath felt slightly dizzy and realized he was holding his breath. He yanked himself out of the memory with an effort, focusing instead on the weight and shape of the badge he held. John's reminder was only adding to the uncomfortable jostle of reactions his request had set in motion.

The _ **wanting** _he felt, holding that star in his hand, was as intense as it was surprising. It wasn't that Heath really desired to go back to being a lawman, but _God_ , he just wanted that feeling again: the belief he could be of service; that he could count on himself; that he could move through the world and handle whatever came his way.

He wanted to feel _normal_. Thing was, he didn't really know what normal was anymore for him; not in his body or in his head, and that uncertainty was scaring the hell out of him. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to accept John's trust in him and then turn his mind to the tasks at hand. But what of him? What could he really offer? He had to try to explain it, so John would know that this – that _**he**_ , Heath - wasn't really what he wanted for the job.

"I feel like I'm riding into a cattle drive on a horse that might go blind or loco or lame at any moment. Hard enough to do the job right and safe on a sound animal." He looked at John with a feeling that he was pleading for something, but for what? For John to let him off the hook? Or to convince him it would all be fine? "How can I back you up when I don't know what I can rely on? Don't know if I can trust myself?"

Heath was distressed, this was obvious – but John decided not to comfort him. He went with a matter-of-fact response. "How is this any different than when you started with Frank? Or the first time you rode the mail, or the first time you drove a stage? You have a job to do, you step up, and you figure it out. That's what you've always done. Heath, you're still a kid, as far as I'm concerned, but you've had more jobs than anyone I've ever known. You'll figure this out too. So what do you say?"

Heath was silent, the tug-of-war evident on his face as he considered the star in his hand and John's words. He took a deep breath, nodded.

"I guess – I guess I'd say that I will faithfully execute all lawful precepts directed to the Marshal of the 9th Federal District, under the authority of the United States, and that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic." He looked up at the sky, frowning in thought and making a show now of trying to remember the words. "And I solemnly swear – um - something else about faith and allegiance and – um - taking only legal fees, and discharging my duties faithfully - and may God have mercy on my soul," he concluded confidently.

"Close enough. I'm going to take that as a yes." John studied him fondly. "Even with the bit of gallows humor at the end."

Heath raised his eyebrows innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

"I'm beginning to think your Aunt Rachael should have been sainted for managing to educate you."

"That is a fact, so help me God."

"Well, Deputy, do you want to know what your lawyer brother found out?"

* * *

 _ **North Fork, Tuolumne River, April, 1859**_

There was a small patch of deep blue evening sky, far, far above and away, but he was in darkness; numb, cold, too heavy to move, a weight sinking into the water. He could hear nothing but a roaring silence, could sense only the vaguest outline of his body, limned by pain that blazed too far away to be felt. He wondered vaguely if he was dead.

The far blue piece of sky spun slowly and, still spinning, began to drift out of his field of vision. He tried to keep it in sight, but the movement made him feel sick. He closed his eyes against the nauseating vertigo, but this only made the sensation of motion worse. Was he moving? He tried to move his head, to look around him, but the effort only filled the blackness with meaningless flashes and zigzags of light that illuminated nothing. He spun, drifted, moving suddenly faster. Water flowed over his face and filled his mouth. He choked, coughed, and then the enveloping numbness suddenly scattered away from him like rain off a shook tarpaulin. Crashing waves of sound and feeling – and screeching pain - came pounding into him. He gasped for air, and knew himself to be in the river, but that was about all he knew. How bad he was hurt, how he was going to keep from drowning, even less how he was going to survive and get home – that was all a long ways off. He was struggling just to keep his eyes open. The tiny blue spot of sky came back into view, so far away, but for right now, he would hold onto that. He couldn't help but laugh up at it. He was still alive.


	4. Chapter 3 - Looking Out

_The outward shows of sky and earth,_  
 _Of hill and valley, he has viewed;_  
 _And impulses of deeper birth_  
 _Have come to him in solitude._

 _In common things that round us lie_  
 _Some random truths he can impart, -_  
 _The harvest of a quiet eye_  
 _That broods and sleeps on his own heart._

 _William Wordsworth_  
 _"A Poet's Epitaph"_

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, April, 1859_**

It was close to midnight. Leah and Rachael sat side by side on the back porch steps, keeping their vigil and speaking together from time to time in low, worried tones. Rachael had brought out their wool coats and some warm cider against the nighttime chill of the mountain air, but otherwise neither woman had left off their watch over the dark woods. A little ways off, heard but unseen, a mockingbird sang a continuous, chaotic string of borrowed and stolen calls, whistles, chirps, and warbles. Rachael sighed in annoyance.

"I swear, that bird will just keep showing off and making noise twenty-four hours a day until mid-summer. Did you know, Leah, at least five of those calls that bird is imitating don't exist anywhere in nature except in Heath's imagination? He got it in his head to make some up and whistle 'em while he was working outside, see if he could get the mockingbird to pick 'em up. So now not only does the bird yell outside our windows all night long for three months out of the year, but half of what he's singing is gibberish. Although who knows, maybe the girl mockingbirds don't care what language he's speaking."

"I did not know that," Leah laughed softly, and Rachael was glad to hear it. Temperamentally easygoing and optimistic, Leah was usually the one who would raise everyone's mood in times of trouble. Rachael, on the other hand, had a serious, quiet - some might say brooding – nature, and when Leah was down, she worried that she wouldn't know how to cheer her up or ease her mind.

Leah gave her a sad smile, knowing what Rachael was trying to do. "Tonight it seems that mockingbird is watching for Heath right along with us, so right now, I don't mind his gibberish at all."

They both turned as they heard a familiar step coming around the side of the cabin.

"Didn't even bother to go inside," Hannah said. "Knew I'd find you two girls waiting on the back step, staring into the woods." Her voice was low and uncharacteristically strained. She stepped into the lamplight to face the two younger women, and Leah caught her breath at the grim expression on Hannah's face. Rachael felt her own mouth go dry, and she put an arm protectively around Leah's shoulders as she braced herself for bad news.

"Hannah –" Leah made herself speak, even though she suddenly felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. "Hannah, what is it? Did you hear something in town? What is it -" She broke off, gasping. Her hands and face felt numb and she tried to slow her breathing down.

"I heard. It was them three animals that came after you, Leah, they went huntin' after Heath. One of the town boys, that Mitch, he saw which way Heath'd gone trapping and led them to where they could catch him out in the woods."

"Oh, God –"

"Now listen – it's not good, but it ain't all bad. From what I could hear, they found him, they chased him, but they didn't catch him. They were mad he got away. They think he jumped into the river." Hannah held up a hand to continue as Leah began to express her relief. "Leah, honey, I know that stretch of the mountains – I roughed it out there alone for a good long stretch 'fore I came to Strawberry, trying to keep out of the way of the gold-crazy men pouring up the rivers with their killin' and their sickness. I know that ridge. Stanislaus runs on this side, the Tuolumne runs on the other. It's a long, steep way down. Those drifters – they think –" Hannah paused, but she knew there was no easy way to say it. "They think Heath jumped to kill himself. To get away from them." She saw both women flinch – and she saw Rachael's face hardening into rage. She thought that was a good thing, right now, because she needed these two girls to stick right hard by each other and watch each other's backs, and they needed to be ready to shoot to kill if it came to that.

Hannah took a breath and went on, her voice now grounded and resolute. "They _think_ he did, but those animals don't know nothin'. And neither do we. So I'm going to go look for him."

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, November, 1874_**

Heath rolled the badge over in his hand as he and John walked to join the women over by Hannah's cabin. It was smooth and heavy, a simple circle enclosing a five-pointed star. _You have a job to do, you step up, and you figure it out. That's what you've always done._ He resolutely repeated John's sensible words to himself as he walked, hoping they would eventually stick. The words sounded right, they made sense, and Heath knew there was a time when he would have known them to be true. Would not have needed to hear John or anyone else tell him so.

A time when he would have had no need to go tearing off into the night on his horse.

That time was no more, it seemed. Now, things start slashing in at him from the edges of his vision, they leaned in to whisper in his ear. It helped, he knew, to move; last night, pacing along the walls of the cabin, he thought he'd gotten a good – albeit white-knuckled – grip on himself.

 _Yeah, I_ ** _thought_** _I did._

For a moment there, he'd even considered sitting back down. Almost. He'd started to ease up his mental death-grip on the _here-and-now_ and was turning to rejoin the group at the table, when the whispering suddenly shrieked in his ear. He felt the snap of the burning firewood in his bones, loud as cracking timber, and for a moment he felt he was falling right through the floor of the cabin. It took a huge effort right then not to run out the door and away from those worried eyes. Somehow he managed to mumble some excuse and keep himself to a walk getting himself outside and most of the way to the barn.

Maybe even all the way. Problem was, he had no memory of going into the barn, no memory of saddling his horse, no memory of riding out. None. Knew nothing, until who knows how long later, when he found himself winded, deathly sore and dead tired, sitting his lathered horse out in the dark without a clue where he was.

Not only where, but _when_ ; Heath came back to himself with no sense of time. **_That_ **could hardly have scared him more than if he'd found himself dropped in the middle of the ocean. He had never appreciated, until recently, just how much he relied on his innate, imperturbable sense of time to keep himself grounded.

 _But_ _I'm sure learning that now, ain't I._

If it hadn't been for a near-full moon and his reliable, intelligent horse, Heath might not have figured his way home till sunup. As it was, he had shaken the reins loose and let Charger's common sense take them both in the right direction. At some point the steady rhythm of time came back to him, a connecting, unspooling silver thread running through his mind. He imagined himself running it gently through his fingers as he made his way forward. _Here I am. Here I am_ , he'd thought, and he found the words strangely calming. By the time the cabin came back into view he felt pretty much like himself again, but utterly drained. He knew by then it was half past one in the morning, and he knew he'd been away for almost four hours. He saw Rivka running out to meet him, and wondered, as he often did, just how it was that he'd been so blessed to have her in his life.

 _Almost four hours gone,_ he'd thought. _Not just away, out, missing – I was four hours **gone**_. _What the hell do I **do** with this? _

He said nothing about it. He didn't have the words. He was just too worn out, and it sounded too crazy to speak about even to him. He put it away, and gave himself to the comfort of her arms. Later that night, he'd dreamed of Tuolumne, dreamed of falling. He wanted to close his eyes to all of it, slam the door shut and lock it, but he hadn't been able to so far, and he couldn't shake a feeling that there was something he needed to remember, something he needed to see -

He glanced up at John, then up ahead to the four women waiting for them at the cabin. He heard a horse approaching fast and saw Nick riding in from the direction of the house.

John looked up as well. "Glad he made it. He told me last night he wanted to ride with us as far as the south boundary road to Angel's Camp."

Heath nodded, not surprised. He was glad to see him - and glad, scattered as he was, that he could still mostly predict what his big brother was going to do. "There's some flooding where Cherokee Creek comes onto our land, and we've had to do plenty of fence repairs up that way. Besides, he's probably already gotten Jarrod to tell him everything he knows, and being Nick, he's gonna want to get his two cents in on what the plan is."

"Yep, I expect you're right on all counts," John agreed. "Got to get you up to speed as well. But for now let's go get a bite to eat before we get on the trail, what do you say?"

Heath managed a smile, tried to relax. _Figure it out, Heath. That's what you've always done._ He closed his fist around the badge, feeling the grooved edge digging into his palm, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

 _You have a job to do_. "Sounds good, Marshal. Let's go."

* * *

 ** _North Fork, Tuolumne River, April, 1859_**

 _And among these nations shalt thou find no ease, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: but the Lord shall give thee there a trembling heart, and failing of eyes, and sorrow of mind._

 _Deuteronomy 28:65_

* * *

 _Where's the sky, I wish I could see the sky -_

His eyes were wide open, he could feel that, but everything was black. There was no light, nothing to see, except when he tried to move. He had a pounding headache, and the blackness seemed somehow to pulse in rhythm with his skull. He tried to move, but as before, that only brought meaningless flashes and zigzags of light that revealed nothing. Nothing but pain that flared and wrapped around his head; nausea filled his chest and throat. He moaned, squeezing his eyes closed, though that altered nothing of what he could see.

He heard voices now, muffled and garbled behind the ringing in his ears. He couldn't understand what they were saying. Some were angry, dangerous. Some were gentler. And there was a child's voice: clearer, closer, speaking words he didn't understand.

 _People. There are people here. In the dark?_

He moaned again as pain lancinated through his head, and he began to feel some of his other injuries.

"Me'weh? Me'weh –" The child's voice again. Calling to him? He opened his eyes, looking for the child, or the spot of blue sky, or something – _anything_ -

"Me'weh," he heard again, and a small gentle hand touched the side of his face. The child said more things he didn't understand, but he seemed to be calling excitedly to the other people around him. He could feel people moving around him where he lay.

 _People in the dark?_ He felt a rising, humming terror. The slightest movement was excruciating. Eyes wide open, he saw nothing. _**They're** not in the dark. I can't see. _

"Me'weh," the child sang softly in his ear, and small fingers wiped the tears from his face. "Me'weh."


	5. Chapter 4 - Setting Course

_On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay._

 _Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind_

 _To fit proportion with my altered state!_

 _Quench those felicities whose light I find_

 _Reflected in my bosom all too late!-_

 _O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait;_

 _And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind!_

 _William Wordsworth, "Captivity"_

* * *

 _God puts the excess of hope in one man, in order that it may be a medicine to the man who is despondent._

 _Henry Ward Beecher_

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, November, 1874_**

Heath saw Hannah coming out the front door of the cabin with a pot of coffee and a bucket full of biscuits and hurried over to assist her. Hannah smiled up at him. "You look a sight better this morning, child. What was it chased you out running last night?"

Heath hesitated, keeping his eyes on the task of arranging the food and drink on an upended crate that was to function as their buffet table for the morning. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting for an answer.

"Tuolumne," he said, looking up at her from where he knelt by the crate. "Then I dreamed about it last night. Haven't thought about it in a long, long time. Maybe because I've been thinking about those mountains, those two missing kids, trying to put myself in their place, you know? Trying to picture it, so maybe we can find them - if they're there to be found. I guess – I guess now I'm just picturing it _**too** _much." He tried to laugh, but there was no humor in his eyes.

Hannah nodded, thoughtful. "I know. I know, child. I been picturing too. Don't make for an easy sleep. But I gotta think that remembering will help you somehow." Heath startled a bit when she said this, and he stared at her, lost in thought, as she turned away to stir the coffee. Hannah's face brightened as Rivka joined them. "Good morning, Rivka honey. I swear you are more beautiful every time I see you."

"Good morning, _Savfta_ Hannah. I swear you look younger every time I see you."

Hannah looked over at the preparations for their departure. "You all gonna find them, those two musicians, if they can be found at all. I believe that. But I'm gonna tell you both something. I didn't share this before because there seemed no reason, it would just add to the sadness. But now it matters. Now you need to know."

Heath watched her face, worried. "Hannah, what is it?"

"Ilsa, that sweet girl, she was with child when they came through in August. Not too far along, but I could tell. She had just a little belly. Barely up to her navel," she added, turning to Rivka, knowing she would understand.

Rivka nodded, frowning, adding up weeks and doing the math. She looked at Heath, who was watching her with concern, silently waiting for her to explain. She understood Hannah's feelings of worry and urgency. "That means she would be due early December – really any time from now until mid-December."

Hannah gazed at them. Even in the midst of these sad uncertainties, she thought, _these two strengthen each other. I do like the way they fit together_. "Find her, Heath. That wilderness isn't as murderous as it was when you were a boy, but there's dangers plenty. It's good you two are going together. I pray you find them both."

* * *

The group gathered by the stacked hay bales alongside the cabin and drank coffee, while John related the details of Jarrod's report. The prosecutor had employed a court recorder to take notes on the interrogation, so Jarrod was able to provide John with very detailed notes. John referred to them frequently as he spoke, while Nick's commentary added colorful language and emotional content to the presentation. Audra and Victoria had already heard some of the troubling details at the house the evening before; Heath, Rivka, and Hannah were hearing it all for the first time.

Jasper, the rustler, and Jinks, his sharpshooter and _compadre_ , were questioned separately. These two men were the survivors of Jasper's gang of thieves, six in number during the time in question. They both confirmed that the six who attacked the Dutch couple in August were the same men who ambushed and tried to kill Heath, Jarrod, and Audra en route to Strawberry a little over a week ago. Of those six, one was shot by Audra and wandered off wounded; three were killed on the trail when the Barkleys returned fire; and two - Jasper and Jinks - were captured and now jailed in Stockton, awaiting trial. Their separate accounts of their assault on Peter and Ilsa matched reasonably well.

Both confirmed that the objective of the ambush was to steal the horse called Nox, and both insisted that the last time they saw the Dutch travelers they were both alive, though not because of any particular mercy on their part.

On that day in August, they lay in hiding and waylaid the couple's wagon, forcing them to drive it off the trail to the gang's warm-weather mountain campsite. There, along with their own shelters, Jasper had prepared a sturdy enclosed stall for the horse. Peter was ordered at gunpoint to unhitch the mare and put her in the box, as it was already abundantly clear to the rustlers that Nox was unlikely to cooperate with strangers. Peter complied. Marco (the rustler who, incidentally, Audra later shot and who remained at large) chose that moment to impose himself on Peter's pretty wife. Ilsa resisted, Peter ran to assist her, and Nox went bezerk. Mayhem followed, along with a great deal of gunfire from the startled and angry rustlers.

Peter and Ilsa began running south, away from the Strawberry trail, up the ridge. The wagon went up in flames, adding to the confusion.

At that point, however, Peter was shot. He fell, shouting at Ilsa to keep running, which she did, reluctantly. A moment later, however, Jasper put a gun to Peter's head, and thus convinced Ilsa to return and control her horse, despite Peter's pleas for her to run away.

Ilsa took control of Nox and locked her in the stall, while Jasper held her husband at gunpoint. Once the horse was contained, Jasper took Ilsa as his prisoner and ordered Jinks to take Peter off somewhere else to kill him, because they planned to remain at that campsite for at least a few days and they didn't need a dead body nearby. Jasper figured he might still need Ilsa to keep the horse under control.

Jinks stated that he dragged Peter off into the wood, up to the top of the ridge. He couldn't remember exactly where Peter had been wounded. He did remember that he had a violin case strapped to his back; he was wearing it when they were ambushed, and was still wearing it when he and Jinks crested the ridge. Peter fell unconscious then. Jinks gave him a shove, and Peter fell far down the mountainside and out of sight. Jinks admitted he was too lazy to see where he ended up.

Both Jasper and Jinks were quite matter-of-fact in their telling of these events, but Jarrod noted an unusual emotional distress when they described the imprisonment of the black mare and of the woman.

Through the day, and through the night, and through the next day, in the steamy heat of August, the powerful horse kicked and fought and cried out inside the locked, windowless box. She of course was not fed or watered. Into the next night her struggles continued, but her striking of the walls of her prison weakened and slowed, and her cries became faint and breathless.

All through this time, Ilsa knelt on the ground, facing the box, her expression a frozen mask of grief. She did not speak, she did not eat, she did not drink, she did not move or acknowledge in any way the men who tried to taunt or even handle her. Jasper quickly warned them off, and the men kept away from her then. This was not chivalry: Jasper would attack anyone who stood in the way of him getting something he wanted. Assaulting women for physical entertainment, however, was not an interest of his. He kept this girl alive to serve a practical purpose, and he didn't want his guys to get in the way. He did admit to Jarrod, though, that he found her to be rather spooky and tragic, and he thought the mare was plenty spooky herself.

They moved their catch a ways further down the westbound trail. The day came when Jasper felt it safe to bring the mare out of her prison. Ilsa still knelt before the wooden box, waiting, mourning. The big black devil horse, Jasper related, was dehydrated, sun-blind, starving, and beaten bloody by him and his crew, and still she fought back. She and the kneeling girl seemed to have no other focus but resistance and their connection one to the other.

Jasper, in a rare flash of intuition, stepped away from the combative, weakening horse, pulled out his side arm, and held it to Ilsa's head, never breaking eye contact with Nox. Nox, in that instant, stopped fighting. She went very still, but trembled all over; she allowed the men to harness her, and she stared at Ilsa. Then, catching Jasper by surprise, Ilsa suddenly stood up and spoke, but in another language; she shouted at the horse; she commanded her, but with tears streaming from her eyes. The horse flew again into battle, and in the chaos that followed, Ilsa disappeared, and the horse, finally, was beaten down and subdued.

The transcript of Jasper's evidence recorded this: "I swear, it was like the two of them figured out I'd use them both as hostages. Threaten the girl, control the horse. They knew that the only way the horse would have a chance of fighting back is if the girl got clear. The horse fought so that the girl could run away. She ran away so the horse could keep fighting. Crazy, right? I never seen anything like it. Not that it accomplished anything. Or maybe it did. We never did break that mare, and we dumped her off with Jameson in Stockton. And maybe those two kids are still alive. They weren't dead when I saw 'em last."

Nick bared his teeth in a growl and muttered. "Scum. They'd better hope those two kids are still alive. And after what he did to Heath – and Jarrod and Audra –" He punched his gloved fist into his palm. "Too bad there's no way to hang Jasper more than once."

"I agree completely. So," John said seriously, "our last known sighting of the couple, three months ago: Peter, gravely injured, somewhere along the north fork of the Tuolumne, possibly with a violin on his back; and Ilsa, who we now know was pregnant, fleeing the rustlers somewhere just southwest of the Long Barn trading post." He looked around at the grim faces of his listeners as they pictured the brutality of what they had just heard. "It's not much, but it's more than we had before."

* * *

Nick was pacing with an excess of energy and rancor, and it was making him irritable. He needed something to do, and he needed to talk to his brother. He saw Heath walking – _no, **limping** , goddammit_ \- over to the barn, where their pack horse was tethered and waiting to be loaded.

" _ **Heath** **!**_ "

"Yeah, Nick, I can hear ya."

"Listen, lemme help you get that animal loaded."

"Sure. Thanks." Heath gave Nick a wary glance. _If he was a teapot_ …Distracted, he reached to lift the pack frame off the rack, intending to turn and settle it on the horse's back. This was a simple, routine task he had done countless thousands of times; now, unfortunately, it was one of those tasks that demanded his full attention and mental fortitude to accomplish. If he did it carefully, it was plenty uncomfortable; if he messed up, it hurt like hell. With Nick standing there simmering, he messed up.

He managed to land the frame where it belonged, and croaked out a "good boy" to the horse who obliged him by standing rock still while Heath hung on his neck in a brief battle to stay on his feet. " _Jeez_ –" he whispered, catching his breath. He straightened up slowly.

Nick watched Heath closely, frowning. "You look plenty lame this morning, boy. What the hell happened last night?" He circled around the horse. Moved in face-to-face.

 _Oh, hell, here we go._ "Just a little stiff. I'll be fine." Heath didn't think that sounded very convincing.

* * *

Hearing Nick's tone of voice, John looked up from where he had spread a map on a hay bale in order to explain part of their route to Audra. Glancing at her, he could see Nick's voice had caught her attention as well.

"What are they on about now, Audra? Sounds like they're getting into something again."

"Oh, it figures. I told Nick about Heath riding off last night. He got all worked up about it."

"Looks to me like he's expressing all kinds of brotherly concern right now – should I do something, you think?"

Audra was thoughtful. "No – no, let 'em work it out. They did last time, didn't they?"

"You wouldn't have said that a year ago, would you have, Audra?" Victoria commented.

"No – I don't think I would have. They've come a long way, don't you think? I just hope they don't hurt each other. Nick had a big old head of steam about it last night – you saw him, we could barely stop him from riding out after Heath."

* * *

Nick was moving in close. Heath winced, backed up a little, his back and ribs and right shoulder all still yelling loudly at him for his screw-up with the pack frame. He really didn't need Nick yelling at him too, but here they were again.

"Audra told me you looked like you were seeing ghosts. And then you go tearing off on Charger, full speed, in the dark. What were you _**thinking**_?"

"You ride all the way out here to ask me that, Nick?" _Stupid question. Of course he did_. Gritting his teeth, Heath picked up the tent poles and began lashing them to the frame. Pain shot down his right arm, nothing new or unusual, but it was really starting to make him angry.

"No, that's _not_ why I rode all the way out here, but I still want an answer. Where the hell did you go?"

 _Please stop asking me where, and how long, and what was I thinking. Please, Nick –_

But he knew Nick wasn't going to stop. He just wasn't, and Heath was tired. He threw a half-hearted barb of angry sarcasm, a feeble defense. "Don't you worry, Nick, we got the Marshal here to keep me in line. He'll keep the women safe."

Nick boiled over. "He sure didn't keep you in line last night, did he," he hissed, grabbing the front of Heath's jacket to make sure they had eye contact. "I mean, what the _**hell**_ , Heath –"

"Nick –" He broke off with a grunt as his back came up hard against the wall.

"Galloping off like a pack-a wolves is after you –"

"Nick, get your spurs outta me. I came back, OK, I –"

"Were you drunk?"

"No, of course not, that's the last thing I need, I –"

"How long were you gone? Where the hell did you _**go**_?"

"I don't know," he mumbled, trying to look anywhere but into those accusing eyes.

"You - don't - know. C'mon, boy, you sound like a stubborn teenager. Give me a better answer than that."

 _I don't want to say it. I really don't._

" _ **Tell me.**_ "

"Nick, I don't know, dammit, I just – I don't _know_."

Nick stared at him. "You - - - what?" A different kind of emotion was rising up in his eyes.

"I don't remember, Nick – I – I don't –" he was whispering, his throat was so dry.

"You don't know? What do you _**mean** _you don't remember?" He had both fists in Heath's jacket now, demanding answers Heath did not have. Heath groped for something of their common experience.

"You've seen this before? Right? Haven't we both –? Soldiers –"

The question seemed to deflect Nick, slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I've seen it, I've heard about it. It doesn't end well." He remembered men who seemed to have been evicted from their own heads by all the things of the war and the prison camps they couldn't forget. So full up there was no room for the person anymore. He'd heard about men losing chunks of time, but these men were almost always drinkers, or addicted to opium, so who knew what to think about them? They didn't live long. Addiction, or violence, or just as often a bullet from their own gun would end them.

 _But this isn't some burned out soldier. This is Heath. Right?_

Nick looked at his hands as though realizing for the first time that he was crushing his brother up against the barn wall.

"Rivka waited there for you, right? You told her about it?"

"Yes, she was waiting. No, I didn't tell her about it."

"And why the hell _**not**_? You need to let her know."

" _No_ – she knows about most everything, but this – Nick, I – I wasn't just caught up somewhere else, in some other time. That's been happening plenty, and that's bad enough, Lord knows. I knew something had its teeth in me last night. I could feel it. I thought I was dealing with it, I really did. Then all of a sudden it got away from me - and then – then – Nick, I wasn't **_anywhere_**. I didn't know where, I didn't know _when_ , just nothing – coulda been a minute, a day, a week –"

"Heath. Easy, easy, settle down. You're OK. You're here."

"It sounds crazy. I know it sounds crazy –"

"Heath –"

"Just don't say anything, OK? Not yet. Please, Nick. I need to – to think – if I can figure it out –"

"Alright. OK. Listen. I won't say anything. For now. But you know as well as I do, when I made you promise not to tell the family _I_ was sick – Heath, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn't shut my family out. And I wouldn't put you in that position."

Heath started to apologize. Nick sighed. He was now worried and annoyed, a combination he deeply disliked.

"Shut up, Heath, that's not the point. I'm not worried about _me_."

Heath just looked at him mutely. His fear and exhaustion were obvious in his eyes, but also a steady resolve. Nick let go of his jacket and brushed him off. Heath looked down at his boots.

"John wants me to back him as his deputy." He felt like he was making a confession.

Nick raised his eyebrows, then nodded. _Makes sense to have more than one badge riding into a new situation._ "And..?"

"And - maybe his confidence is misplaced."

"Heath. You give that much weight to a piece of metal?"

Heath looked up at him in surprise. Nick continued.

"Seriously. Ask yourself. Would you feel any less responsible or committed or willing to back John if he hadn't handed you a badge? What the hell difference does it make, to you?"

Heath had no answer for that. He shook his head.

"Lemme see that thing."

Nick held out a gloved hand. Heath handed him the star. Nick looked at it thoughtfully. "Y'know, you were three-quarters dead and half out of your mind a few months ago, and you still rode 25 miles in less than two hours in the middle of the night, got shot, and then saved my life. John knows what he's doing." He hefted the badge once or twice, then he clipped it to the breast pocket of Heath's jacket and nodded in satisfaction. "Yep. That's where it goes." He gave Heath's shoulder a pat, his worried expression easing just a little as he met his brother's eyes. "What _you_ need, boy, is to get a little bit better at taking care of yourself. C'mon. Let's get that horse loaded up."


	6. Chapter 5 - Turn and Listen

_O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,_ _  
Irrecoverably dark! total eclipse,  
Without all hope of day._

 _John Milton, "Samson Agonistes"_

* * *

 _Her fair face_  
 _Contented me with its reflected aspect,_  
 _Conquering me with the radiance of a smile,_  
 _She said to me, "Turn thee about and listen;_  
 _Not in mine eyes alone is Paradise."_

 _Dante, "The Divine Comedy"_

* * *

 ** _North Fork, Tuolumne River, 1859_**

He was enveloped in the warm, musty smell of earth and charcoal and animal hides. For a good long stretch, he just lay in the soft cradle of that smell and appreciated the fact that he was awake, and that neither he nor the world around him was in motion. That was a good thing, a wonderful thing, because so far, every time he'd surfaced in this dark place, he had been subsumed in a moving, spinning, horrible sea of nausea and headache.

He was a little unsure of how long it had been since he had jumped off the cliff, but now that his head was clearer, he reckoned it somewhere around two and a half days ago. He cautiously tested the movement of his head and body, and concluded that he was still pretty well banged up.

And so he lay quiet for a spell, and just breathed in the silence and the stillness. He tried to prepare himself, to gather his courage. And then he opened his eyes.

Nothing. He could see nothing.

For all he thought he had readied himself for it, he couldn't stop the sob that escaped him or the panic that seemed to squeeze all the air out of him and keep him from taking a breath in. He was staring up at nothing. Gasping, he tried to bring his hands to his face but found he was wrapped up so snugly he might as well have been hogtied. His struggling brought back the pounding headache, and he clenched his teeth to keep himself from screaming.

"Me'weh, Me'weh!" There was that child's voice again, but now there was another, an older boy's voice, scolding the child away, and then speaking to him. Speaking in English.

"Stop fighting, you fool, you'll hurt yourself and start vomiting again. Stop it. Hold still." The voice sounded impatient, even a little imperious. Not a man's voice, but deeper than a boy's. _Older than me,_ thought Heath.

"Where – who -?" Heath croaked. The world threatened to begin rocking and spinning again, and Heath whimpered slightly, swallowing. The useless lightning flashed in the blackness around him.

"Shush. You behave and keep still and I'll bring you some ginger tea," the boy said sternly. "Will be good for your stomach."

"Me'weh!" Heath felt the small hands patting his face again, heard the older boy laugh reluctantly. "That is my little brother Husu*. He is four. He calls you Me'weh – it means squirrel. Because you fell down out of the trees, I think."

" _Copu,_ Teleli?"

"Shoo, Husu! He asking if you're getting better."

Heath felt panic spinning up inside him again. _Why is he talking about squirrels? Where am I? Why can't I see anything? I have to get out, if I get outside maybe I can see –_ the blindness suddenly seemed like a physical, smothering thing, a shroud upon his face that he had to rip away or suffocate. Panting, mindless now, he fought to get loose even as he was weeping from the pain.

More voices now, adults, men and women. Calm hands holding him still, turning him as he heaved and vomited up what little was in his stomach, wiping his face clean and trickling a little water into his parched, sour mouth. Then there was an old man's voice, kind and gentle, and the boy, translating.

"You are safe. You were hurt. Teleli** ( _that's me, explained the boy_ ) and his uncles pulled you from the river. You are in our village. Sutamasina. What is your name?"

"Me'weh!" the little one called out, and Heath heard low laughter and women hushing the child.

"Heath," he rasped, barely audible. Someone gave him another sip of water. He swallowed, then said, "I can't see. Why can't I see?"

"You can't see?" There was murmuring and a few gasps of surprise around him.

"No –" he said, trying mightily not to cry or panic. More murmuring and low conversation. A few angry and fearful voices rose. The old man seemed to override them. The boy spoke again, low in his ear.

"Papati – my grandfather – he is shaman. Medicine man. He says -" Teleli paused, waiting for his grandfather to finish speaking. "- he says maybe you were cursed by the one who threw you in the river. Some are saying you bring that curse with you into our village. If one of our people were attacked with a curse, we would go find the shaman who did it and kill them. But you are not one of ours. Some here are saying say we should throw you back in the river. Because you are White," Teleli explained in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "Papati says, the village will go talk about it now."

Heath could hear the old man come close to him and felt a dry, warm hand on his forehead. "You rest now," Teleli translated. "No one here will harm you. You have broken bones in your leg near the foot, many other bad cuts and bruises, and you hurt your head badly. That is why you are all wrapped up. Rest and heal and we will see what to do about the curse."

Heath opened his mouth to say something, but then realized these Indians who had pulled him out of the river had no more idea than he did why he was blind §. And even if he _could_ see, he was too sick and banged up to go anywhere. Teleli, with his businesslike manner, brought him some bitter tea and poured it down Heath's throat as if he was watering a plant. Near mad with thirst, Heath drank it down without protest, but he soon realized it was a sedative. He struggled to stay awake.

 _Tuolumne….they must be Miwok Indians…I don't think there's an easy trail to get back home from here…can't climb back over that ridge, even if I could see…have to climb to a pass way up in the mountains, or way down to the foothills…_ His thoughts wandered. He heard Teleli come back into the shelter and stir the fire. "Miwok? Are you Miwok?" he asked, not sure if he was loud enough to be heard.

Teleli grunted. "Miwok? That's a White man's name. We are a village, Sutamasina. There are other villages, other names – White people call us all Miwok. I guess that's better than when they call us Digger Indians. In our language _me-wuk_ just means 'people'. The ones with villages south of us down to the Desert Mountains, their word for a person is _yokuts_ , so White people call them Yokuts Indians. My people have no idea what White men mean by these names. I only learned when I was stolen."

Heath frowned, confused. Everything Teleli said just gave him more questions, and he was too sick and scared and sore to think anything through. "Stolen…?" he mumbled. He was drifting off.

"Stolen," Teleli said, sounding a hundred miles away. "Me and my sister and my mother were stolen. By White people, when I was Husu's age. They taught me English and showed me what my place would be with White people. My mother and sister were household slaves. When I was seven, I was sent to work too. My brother and uncles raided the ranch to free us. I escaped with them. My mother and sister were killed."

"'S terrible –" Heath slurred. He felt tears in his eyes, sliding down his cheek. "Stolen…"

Teleli was standing over him, silent for a long moment. He spoke softly. "We hide, move further up into the mountains. Our high summer grounds have become the place we barely survive the winter. But the White men are hunting gold up here, higher and higher, and so they hunt us too. We're dying, every day, they come and kill us, or they curse us with their sicknesses. We'll be moving on from here very soon, I hear the elders talking about it. They worry about another attack. There are White people who trade with us, or pay us for work, and they warn us sometimes….but we keep dying. That's why my uncles want to throw you back in the river to drown."

"Don' wanna drown," Heath said. "Wanna go home –"

"Go to sleep, Me'weh," the boy said.

* * *

 ** _Sierra Foothills, Stanislaus River, 1874_**

"Come to bed, Heath," Rivka said, coming up behind him where he stood watching the moon rise over the Sierra. She hugged him lightly, sliding her hands up over his chest. Looking over his shoulder, she followed his upward gaze. There was a winter chill in the wind at this slightly higher altitude, and she shivered, pressing herself a little closer against his back. He smiled and turned to pull her into his arms, loving the scent and feel of her dark hair against his face. He hummed contentedly, holding her tight.

They had traveled most of the way to Jamestown that day. They'd had beautiful weather, and their path southward through the foothills kept them above the fog that filled the valley here and there. Despite Heath's dust-up with Nick that morning - or perhaps in part because of it - the five of them had ridden out together with a feeling of adventure, and a greater sense of ease than any of them had felt in some time. Nick accompanied them for the first half of the trip, using the time to talk about the southern reaches of the ranch; he and Heath pointing out landmarks, debating plans, prospects, problems; and speculating in good humor about the ways in which Mother's new husband might fit into the family enterprise. Their easy banter eventually even overcame Audra's reserve on the subject, when John suggested perhaps he should retire from law enforcement and learn to cultivate honey bees, a relatively new import to the state. It was, in fact, a very sound and promising business idea, but what drew her in was John's ease and sense of humor about himself, and she was soon laughing and throwing out suggestions along with the rest.

Heath, for his part, was feeling about as good as he thought possible. Just riding in the open country of the foothills went a long way to lifting his mood and clearing out the skittish noise and images that were always dancing at the edges of his mind. But to be riding this beautiful country with his beautiful girl: that was nearly heaven.

They'd crossed the Stanislaus River before sunset and camped on the south bank. Heath gazed up into the hills, picturing.

"What are you thinking?" Rivka asked.

"I know we need to go to Jamestown first and track down the violin player. But I keep feeling like we're going to have to head up-country, as soon as possible. I can't really say why. My head is so full of stuff I can't keep nailed down in its proper place, I don't know half the time what of my thinking I can really trust. I'd like to just shut it all off and not remember anything sometimes, but –"

"But what?"

"Even Hannah said maybe all this remembering will help somehow." His eyes ran over the contours of the mountains, faintly visible in the moonlight. "But first, I guess, we start with the violin."

* * *

* Husu: Caterpillar  
** Teleli: Black Oak  
§ AN: There is a clinical phenomenon of transient cortical blindness resulting from significant occipital concussion or other injury. More common in children, case reports show spontaneous resolution within 2 weeks, associated symptoms like that of severe concussion (nausea, fatigue, pain, malaise, confusion). For the purposes of our fictional universe, I have decided that CTE doesn't exist, otherwise our battered heroes would be developing dementia at an early age.


	7. Chapter 6 - Strangely Brave

_She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head_

 _A storm of mighty billows broke and passed._

 _Whose hand upheld her? Who her footsteps led_

 _To this green haven of sweet rest at last?_

 _What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown?_

 _What love sustained when she was most alone?…_

 _Though by no reason she be justified,_

 _Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face,_

 _She deems this want must needs be satisfied,_

 _Though here all slips from out her weak embrace._

 _And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith,_

 _With her own dream her prayer she answereth._

 _Emma Lazarus (1849–1887)_

 _"Faith"_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, April, 1859_**

Hannah stood at the edge of the cliff, the hood of her old canvas poncho pulled low over her eyes against the heavy springtime downpour. Behind the hiss of the rain, she could hear the rumble of the swollen Tuolumne far below. She held a handful of snares in her hand, as well as two rabbits that had been caught in the traps Heath had left behind him like a trail for her to follow. Each snare she collected, each one so carefully and cleverly made by his ten-year-old hands, threatened to break her heart. Still, she followed, and they had led her here, to the place wherefrom she was certain Heath had made his escape.

She called out his name, three times, then closed her eyes to listen. What a blessing it would be if she could find him close by here and bring him home, but she thought that unlikely. She kept still, though, and listened, and prayed.

 _Lord, I hope you caught that boy in your hands and set him down safe in the river. I hope you didn't catch him to bring him home to you, not yet, not yet, please, not yet…_

She threw back the hood of the poncho to better hear what was around her. Her face wet with rain and tears, she looked up to the trees and called out his name again. She heard only the sounds of falling, flowing water. She waited another minute, motionless. Then she stepped back from the edge, covering her head once more. She turned and vanished into the foggy gray forest, seeking her path down to the river.

* * *

 ** _Jamestown, California, November 1874_**

The four riders and their pack horse came at an easy pace on a rising road that passed through a break in a strange, flat-topped ridge called Table Mountain.

"That is so odd-looking," Rivka commented. "It's like the mesas in New Mexico – but green – and long and skinny."

"If you look it from the mountains up above, it looks like a snake twisting down toward the valley," Heath said. "There're beautiful waterfalls that come off the top a little further west of here."

They rode into Jamestown a few miles further on. John whistled in wonder. "Will you look at this. There's a Main Street, and Christmas decorations, a hotel, a restaurant. Last time I came through here this wasn't much more than a trading post. Things are changing fast and faster in this state." The implications for the rapidly expanding scope of his own job were not lost on him. Washington was going to need to ramp up their resources and attention to this post-Gold-Rush world, he figured. His overall impression of exponential growth – of population size, development, opportunity, crime, violence, and destruction – was only strengthened as they rode into this Mother Lode country.

Dismounting in front of the sheriff's office, Heath rolled his shoulders and tried to work out some of the aches and pains from the last few days' riding. He scanned the street with an attentive, wary eye. It was mid-morning, but there were already sounds of disorderly conduct coming from the saloon across the street. He glanced at John and saw him making the same visual survey of the area.

"I'm thinking for right now we should stay all four of us together and keep our belongings in sight," Heath said.

John nodded. "Mm-hm. I agree. There seem to be some unpredictable elements here in town." He looked at Heath, his expression slightly pained, then addressed Audra and Rivka. "I feel like I should apologize in advance. The sheriff here is not a pleasant man. I'd rather not subject you to his company, but I don't think it's prudent right now to leave you two ladies –" he inclined his head toward the noisy saloon. "- unescorted."

Audra and Rivka shared a look of agreement. "No apology necessary," Rivka said. "But thank you for the forewarning, and the escort."

"OK," John said. He took a breath. "Here goes. Deputy, ladies, let's go see what we can find out."

* * *

 _ **Sutamasina, April 1859**_

Heath sat, leaning back on a cushion of animal hides, and listened to the rain pouring down on the roof of the shelter. The careful change of position – with Teleli's help – had caused a new wave of headache and sea-sickness, but it was ebbing, so long as he held himself very still. His right leg was throbbing where it lay propped up on something soft – blankets maybe. He had cried out in pain when Teleli had grasped his leg to lift it. He had bitten it back quickly, embarrassed. Teleli sounded embarrassed for him as well, but kindly muttered an apology. "Sorry. I will tell you first next time so you can be ready."

"Thanks," Heath said, briefly overcome by a feeling of gratitude for the Miwok boy's understanding. He sniffed, quickly wiped his eyes, hoping Teleli wouldn't notice. He shifted carefully, feeling the myriad bruises and gashes given him by the branches as he fell. He had no clear memory of it: just fragments of feeling and image, and an odd feeling that he hadn't been inside his own body when he jumped. He decided he wouldn't say anything about that.

He felt around himself with his hands. Deer hides underneath him, maybe, or elk. He was wearing his own clothes still but had no boots on. Last, reluctantly, he brought his hands up in front of his face. Wiggled his fingers, waved his hands, covered and uncovered his eyes – nothing. He sighed. Tears threatened again, and then the squeeze of panic in his throat.

 _Stop it. It's stupid to cry, and it's stupid to go all crazy with fear. Just **stop** it. _

It worked, for the moment, and he went back to exploring what he could with his hands. There was a sturdy splint on his throbbing leg made of wood, rawhide, and some sort of rough fabric. There was a gash, and lots of pain and swelling on the back of his head. Investigating that injury gave him a few bad minutes back at sea, sweating and struggling not to vomit.

He decided he'd just sit still again for a spell. The rain beat down, and he realized the sound gave him an image of the shelter he was in, and how big it was. The roof sounded like wood, the upper part of the walls sounded like thatch, but the floor, he could feel (and smell) was earthen. Maybe the walls were part earthen too – or maybe the floor was dug down below ground level. He heard no leaks, despite the deluge, and felt no drafts, despite the gusty wind outside. It had a strong smell from the soil, the cook fire and the animal hides, but the air seemed fresh nonetheless. He heard someone enter, and he tensed.

"It's me," Teleli said, gruffly. Heath relaxed slightly.

"What is this building?"

"It is our village roundhouse. It is for meeting, for guests, for eating together when we have a ceremony, and for the people to come and hear our head person say something."

"Is it dug into the ground?"

"Yes, part way, about half underground. It is a circle, with a peaked roof, like an acorn. Acorns are our main harvest. That's partly why they call us Diggers. And you should know that Husu naming you Me'weh is a compliment. We honor squirrels. We share the acorns with them."

Heath laughed, then winced. "Tell him thank you for me."

Teleli pushed a cup of tea into Heath's hand. "Drink that," he ordered. "Papati says. Do you need help?"

"No," Heath said. "I don't want to go back to sleep, though –"

"It's just willow bark. For pain. Drink." He paused, watching to make sure Heath was complying with Papati's instructions. Heath heard him pace to the door and back.

"They are still arguing about you, you know. That is why there is no one in the roundhouse. Normally the village would meet in here to make such a decision, but they can't, because you are here as an injured guest. So they are meeting by our head man's shelter, and half the village must sit in the rain. That discomfort is making many unhappy and is not helping the ones who argue for your protection. Some say, throw him in the river, then we can all dry off and have our roundhouse back."

Teleli's dispassionate, blunt explanations Heath found in some strange way comforting. "I'd be happy to drag myself outside if it would help people decide not to drown me," Heath muttered.

He heard Teleli give a short laugh and start to say something in response, but there came instead a sound of horses, and shouting, and Heath could tell the village was no longer meeting to talk about him. Men's voices were gathering, and he heard the sound of women scattering and calling to their children in tones that needed no translation.

Teleli also spat out some words, and there was anger and fear in his voice.

"What is it? Who is it? Teleli -?"

" _Al-inik_ ," the boy barked, moving to the door. "White men." His voice no longer held any warmth. He left without saying anything more.


	8. Chapter 7 - Full Fathom Five

_Full fathom five thy father lies;_

 _Of his bones are coral made;_

 _Those are pearls that were his eyes:_

 _Nothing of him that doth fade_

 _But doth suffer a sea-change_

 _Into something rich and strange._

 _William Shakespeare,_ _The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2._

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, April, 1859_**

"Papati, you have to listen to me. There's no time. Do you understand?" This was the voice of a White man, a loud, commanding sort of man. Heath could hear Teleli translating, and the grandfather speaking a reply.

"Grandfather says, this camp is well-hidden. There's no gold here. They've never attacked here before."

"They are coming here now. _Now_ , Papati! Boy, tell him. Make him understand. The State of California has increased the bounty for Indian scalps. These are gangs of paid killers coming after you now. And we have at least six more villages to warn."

The urgent, angry voices grew closer, and Heath could do nothing but sit and wait. The door of the roundhouse banged open, and then fell to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust. This Heath couldn't see, but he could taste it in the air, though too late to stop himself breathing it in and coughing as a result. His head immediately felt as though it would split in two. He curled forward, his hands pressed against his temples, teeth clenched. He swore he'd hold his breath till he was blue rather than draw attention to himself, much less whimper in pain in front of these strangers.

The heated dialogue continued, and more of the Miwok pressed in to the roundhouse to listen and add their opinions. It seemed for now Heath was forgotten. As he strained to sort out what was being said among the adults, he heard a rustling at his side and two little hands wrapped around his upper arm. "Me'weh," Husu whispered. "Shhh –" He heard the boy's soft giggle as he burrowed under to hide among the blankets against which Heath had been leaning.

Distracted by the four-year-old, a few moments passed before Heath realized that the adults in the room had suddenly fallen silent. The abrupt and completely mysterious change in atmosphere made his heart race and his mouth go dry; he froze, on full alert. Blackness, blackness all around, but he knew, sure as he was sitting there, that they were all staring at him. He could feel the weight of it on his skin. Someone walked closer to him and he tensed. His hands were trembling; he gripped the deerskin on which he sat in order to still them. The Miwok adults murmured.

The White man with the commanding voice said, "Why do you have a White child here in your village?"

Teleli translated. "We found him injured a few days ago. He's not been well enough yet to leave on his own. Also he was cursed. We don't know by whom. We have been talking about what to do with him. A few of our men - like my son - say he is White, and therefore he should die, and they would throw him back in the river where we found him. Most of my people fear the curse on him and want him away from the village. If now we must flee, I do not think we will bring him with us."

Heath had, on some level, expected such a decision. He was not a child who had grown up with any expectation or experience of protection from his own people; why would he find anything different here? Still, his gut clenched with fear as he heard Teleli speak his grandfather's words, as he saw himself blind and alone in this wilderness. Heath could hear Teleli hesitate as he spoke, could hear just a hint of distress in his voice, and for some reason that terrified him even more. He suddenly felt he couldn't catch his breath.

 _I wish I was home._

He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream for his mother, but he wasn't going to show that in front of these people. This was the only thing he _could_ control right then, and he put everything he had into it. He slowed his breathing, he blinked back his tears, and set his face into an impassive mask. _Keep still, keep still,_ he repeated to himself. He kept still and waited.

The white men were speaking quietly but urgently among themselves. Heath couldn't make out all of what was said but clearly there was disagreement. Finally, the man who was their leader made the decision, but there was pain in his voice. "We can't take him with us," he said, speaking to his companion. "There's no choice. We have too many other groups to find and warn – he'd slow us down. More lives would be lost."

"You're probably right, Father, but –"

"No." He spoke to the Miwok elder then. "Papati, please, take him with you. When you move you village out of harm's way. The White boy – you'll keep him safe? We'll come back for him as soon as we can. I don't know what all you mean by a curse, but we'll take him off your hands, if that will ease your people's minds."

The assembled Miwok murmured unhappily at this, but Papati admonished them and assented. "Yes, yes, for now we will keep him with our village."

"Alright, we have to keep moving." The leader spoke again to his companion. "Go get your brother, bring the horses, and let's get on the trail. We don't have much time."

The noisy group moved out of the roundhouse. Heath sat and thought about what he had just heard. He'd seen and heard plenty about these bounty hunters who were making a living clearing the California gold fields and ranch land of every last Indian. He wasn't at all sure that these Miwok could keep _themselves_ alive, much less him. And he was pretty sure that if this village was attacked by those scalp hunters, they'd kill him too without hesitation. They killed women and babies, why not some scruffy abandoned kid with a broken leg? They'd probably think he was a half-breed, the village bastard; even young as he was, as despairing as he was right then, Heath could see something of the grim irony in that scenario.

"Where're you from?" said the young man out of the blackness. Heath startled, his heart racing once more. He wondered if he had ever felt so helpless.

 _Keep still._

"Who's there?" Heath said after a moment, when he was pretty sure his voice would come out steady.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I'm traveling on business with my father. We have some urgent messages to carry and so I'm afraid we can't take you with us, but I thought if you could tell me your name and where you're from, I could get a message to your people to let them know where you are."

"A message -? I'm from Strawberry -" He stopped, suddenly reluctant to say more. Why should he? Wouldn't his Mama be better off if he was gone? Those men attacked her because of him – _he_ was the one that drew the monsters to her doorstep and brought bad luck upon all of them. And from what these men were saying, the world was full of such monsters, and they were only going to keep on coming, to Strawberry or pretty much anywhere else his mama might go. And if he told this man her name _he_ would scorn her, too, and Heath didn't think he could stand to see that happen, not to his mama, not any more.

And besides, he figured, by the time she got a message, he'd probably be dead and scalped anyway. Or worse. They'd put him in irons and sell him off to a mining camp slave trader. There was always a buyer for a vagrant, unclaimed child like him, especially one so evidently outcast. Boys were sold for digging in the mines and planting charges in narrow places; they were sold as personal or domestic slaves; they were sold for sex to keep the miners quiet. Heath considered the fact that he was worth more money to a slaver than he'd ever had in his whole life. He felt then bleak and hopeless, his spirit sinking like a rock in the water, a tragedy in a sea of tragedies.

He shook his head and went silent.

"But – Strawberry -? Who is your family? What is your father's name? I'm sure I could –"

"Let's go!" The leader shouted from outside.

"Coming, Father!" he called back, then, to Heath, "We'll come back. As soon as we can. Alright?"

Heath didn't answer. _Keep still._

The young man hesitated, then turned and hurried away. Heath heard him speaking to his father as he left the roundhouse. "Father, I don't think that boy can see."

The leader didn't respond immediately. Then, his voice rough, he repeated his earlier decision. "No choice. Too many lives at stake. We'll come back as soon as we can." Heath flinched slightly as the horses sprang into motion. He could feel the drumming of their hooves in the ground beneath him as they galloped away.


	9. Chapter 8 - Crossroads

**_Sutamasina, April, 1859_**

Heath heard the rain ease up and then stop, though the trees overhead continued to drip on the bark roof of the roundhouse. He pondered the fact that his survival at the moment might depend on how annoyed these Indians were with the wet weather, and he hoped that Teleli's grandfather held enough sway to protect him. If he didn't – Heath felt queasy considering what might be in store for him. Drowned like troublesome stray, or scalped by a bounty hunter, or a slow death wandering blind in the mountains. He honestly thought the first option sounded the least horrible. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. _Keep still, keep still, keep your eye on the prize, hold on, boy, hold on –_

Hannah would sing that song as she'd dig in the garden outside. _It was a song with a good workin' rhythm,_ she'd say. He smiled. He could hear her voice. _Aint no point in givin' up, is there, child? Time enough for rest when we're dead_.

 _Hold on,_ he thought, _I can hold on._

The sounds outside the roundhouse were not comforting. The fear and urgency in the voices and movement throughout the camp were intense and growing every minute. He heard movement at the open door, and Teleli announced himself, as he had gotten in the habit of doing. Heath appreciated the kindness. As Teleli entered, Husu popped up laughing from his hiding place, and was promptly shooed out by his brother with stern instructions to go to the women and stay there.

"We are almost ready to go," Teleli said. He came quickly to where Heath sat and pushed a warm cup into his hand. "Drink this."

Heath now recognized the smell, though this concoction seemed stronger, with other smells mixed in besides. "Why this now? I don't want to be all doped up, especially if there's trouble –"

"Papati says to drink it. We don't have an easy way to bring you along and it's going to hurt. Better you sleep." Heath knew Teleli was making an effort to sound matter-of-fact, but he could hear he was afraid and upset – and nervous. For the first time, Heath found himself wondering if Teleli was lying to him, and the fear that accompanied that thought came close to overwhelming his own tenuous grip on his emotions. He desperately wished he could see Teleli's face, read his expression. If he could, perhaps Heath would see there what his fate was to be.

"Papati says to drink it," the boy repeated. "He –" Teleli was interrupted by the entrance of a man who was clearly giving him orders and who was clearly impatient. Teleli hesitated, and the man barked an obvious rebuke. Teleli sighed.

"This is my father," he said softly. "He says, do what Papati says or he will come over and pour it down your throat." He cleared his throat, then said, "I'm sorry, Me'weh."

"Sorry for what, Teleli?" Heath wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Drink. It will make it easier."

 _Easier, how, exactly? And for whom?_ Heath didn't see much choice. He drank. The effects were noticeable quickly, coming in warm heavy waves of drowsiness. As he dozed, he thought he could see shifting, moving shapes in the blackness that filled his vision and he wondered if that was a good sign, but he couldn't focus his thoughts or his attention on anything. He leaned back and closed his eyes. More voices at the door, urgent. Teleli spoke by his ear.

"My uncles say they will take care of moving you. They cannot find Husu, and I have to go look for him. Scouts have seen the scalp hunters coming our way – they have found the hidden path to our camp. We have to go, now, and I have to find Husu."

"Be careful –" Heath mumbled. "Find Husu. Go find him. He is little. Be careful –" He felt Teleli squeeze his arm once, then he was gone.

 ** _Jamestown, California, November, 1874_**

"OK," John said. "Here goes. Deputy, ladies, let's go see what we can find out. This fella tends to be extremely well-informed."

Heath looked curiously at John, wondering what exactly he meant by "unpleasant" and "well-informed". The Marshal led the way into the sheriff's office, while Heath brought up the rear with a protective hand lightly at Audra's and Rivka's back. He gave one more glance up and down the street and followed them inside.

"Marshal John Smith, what a pleasant, pleasant surprise. To what do we owe the honor of your appearance here today?" The voice was big, baritone, and full of warmth.

Rivka and Audra both caught Heath's eye with a questioning look. _What's so unpleasant?_ He shrugged, entered the room, and stepped up to take his position by John's right arm. John cleared his throat. "Mornin', Sheriff, we're just –"

"Call me Martin, please, come in, come in, come in, please, do sit down."

Martin Peale was not a tall man. He was shorter than average, and stocky, though not fat. He radiated a peculiar vigor and energy. His eyes went everywhere, studying everything, and he seemed at first impression to be in continuous motion. Most people found his intrusive scrutiny and his compact, almost twitchy presence uncomfortable; moreover it was utterly incongruous with the size and depth of his sonorous voice and the soothing modulation of his speech.

"Thank you, Martin, as I was saying," John began again, "this is my assistant, Deputy Marshal Barkley. These young ladies travelling with us are Miss Audra Barkley, of Stockton, and Doc- -" He cut himself off at Rivka's quick shake of her head, almost imperceptible. "Ah, and this is Miss Rivka Levi, of San Francisco, a dear friend of the Barkley family."

"A pleasure, a pleasure, I am absolutely sure," Martin beamed. "Let me offer you some cold mountain water from my icebox, and you can tell me how I can be of assistance to you." Even as he served the admittedly excellent water, he seemed to be examining each of his guests. Heath suddenly realized that the man's roaming, scanning gaze reminded him of nothing so much as a buzzing, hungry housefly, looking for food and a place to lay some eggs. The thought made him shudder slightly. Martin noticed. Heath saw him notice. Their eyes met briefly, and Heath recognized the gaze of a hungry scavenger before Martin looked away. _I do think I'm starting to see what John found so "unpleasant"_ , he thought. He ordered himself to relax, and set himself to watching and waiting.

Rivka thought it best not to stir up the sheriff with the challenge of being confronted with a female doctor. She was otherwise finding the man morbidly fascinating, incongruous and exaggerated as he was. She sensed it immediately, however, the moment Heath's defenses went up, and while she couldn't pinpoint the cause for alarm, she followed his lead and remained vigilant.

Audra, too, hadn't yet identified anything offensive, yet, other than Martin's overly solicitous demeanor. She was watching John for cues, though; he remained uncharacteristically on edge, and that made her nervous. John, for his part, plowed ahead, pushing past the pleasantries as though they were overgrown jungle vines and he was trying to get them all across the swamp as quickly as possible.

"We're on our way to Sonora, as you know. Stopping off here on an unrelated matter. We're looking to reunite a family that got separated over the summer when they ran into some trouble up in the mountains. There's a man who might be able to point us in the right direction, if you could help us find him."

"Please, please, please, go on, Marshal, do tell." Martin leaned in, eyes scanning, hands moving.

He _was_ disturbing – Audra found she wanted very much to get out of his sight - and yet his body language and the modulation of his speech seemed to demand intimacy. The overall effect, Audra thought, was indeed very unpleasant.

She could see John gritting his teeth, but he kept his voice even. "Heard tell of a very skilled violinist who played for a wedding hereabouts, maybe two months ago. Any idea who he is and where we could find him?"

"Ahhh, that fellow, yes I'm sure I know who you mean. I'll have to look at my records for a name - he should have had a permit for public performance…" Standing, he glanced at Heath and kept talking congenially as he turned his back to go through a file cabinet. "So, _Deputy_ Barkley it is now, eh?" He turned back and gave Heath a cheery smile. "Hard to imagine any of the Barkley children having to work a job for _pay_ , like the rest of us – though you are a special case, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon, Sheriff?" Heath knew pretty well what was meant, and he certainly had no need of the man's pardon, but he thought it best to play out a little more line and see what Martin would do with it.

"Just curious. You're Heath, right? Mrs. Barkley's charity case, back to working for wages? I do think she should be considered for sainthood, by the way. But I digress. I mean, who could imagine Miss Audra here, for example, collecting a paycheck. It just would seem like something from a Bronte novel, wouldn't it? So tragically _beneath_ her, if she ever descended to that level. But you – you're a different breed, in more ways than one." Heath noticed that now that Martin had a meal, so to speak, something to feed on, he and his eyes went very still. "Deputy Heath Barkley? Huh. Ranch hand, more like. Mine worker. Grunt work. You're just barely out of prison. So is _that_ it? It's a work release?" His eyes now slid gleefully to John. "Quite the high-level escort, aren't you, Marshal? Does the Attorney General know Victoria Barkley has co-opted his 9th District representative for her own private – shall we say - _uses_?"

Before either Heath or John could react to this last salvo, Audra had leaped to her feet and slapped Sheriff Peale hard across the face. Heath was pleased to see Martin completely taken by surprise.

"That is for disrespecting my mother, who is not here to smack you herself," Audra informed him, her eyes narrow and furious.

"Miss Barkley, if I've offended you –"

"Oh, you certainly have, Sheriff, and I suggest you quit your sniping and get back to finding that file."

Heath looked down, pressing the back of one gloved hand against his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. John shook his head with a smile. Martin turned with a flourish and produced a file. "Here it is, as promised." He opened it, and his face fell dramatically. "Oh, yes, I remember. The violin player. Never got his name. Strange man. Didn't speak much English. Don't know that you'll learn much."

"What language does he speak?" Rivka asked.

The restless eyes hopped over to Rivka. Heath sat up, back on guard. "What language? I don't know. It's not English. He's a peddler and a violin player, so that makes him a Jew. So he speaks some Jew language, I guess. Perhaps you could communicate with him."

Rivka raised her eyebrows at him, then spoke to her companions. "Any European language, I'll be able to get by," she said. "Some I speak better than others, but even my Italian is passable. Russian, Slavic languages, not so much."

Martin had settled back into stillness for another meal. "Levi, of course, of course. You're the Jew girl, yes, I remember hearing about you when the – uh – Deputy – here came back from prison. I heard Stockton was all in an uproar about you, though I don't see what all the Christian fuss was about. Who cares who the half-Barkley marries? It's not like he's the one to carry the family legacy and reputation, right?" Martin found this idea very amusing and laughed at his own comment until his eyes watered. "Oh, that's funny. But really, the two real sons, you'd hope, would make good marriages – the family has money, if not exactly respect anymore, now, what with all the craziness you brought around –" he smiled broadly at Heath, "- so one of those boys should be able to at least buy a respectable marriage. And Audra- they'd have to pawn you off on someone who can train you to dress and act like a female."

"Boy howdy, you are something else, Marty!" Heath exclaimed pleasantly. "Though I'm starting to understand why there appears to be no law and order on the streets out there. The sheriff of Jamestown seems to be too busy reading the gossip columns and spinning tales like a bored housewife. Do you think you can pull your nose out of the social register for long enough to point us to where we could find our violinist?"

Finally, they did extract some information on the peddler's usual route, so they bought some lunch at the restaurant, and headed north out of town in search of the violinist and his wagon. Over lunch, they marveled a bit over Sheriff Peale and his constant barrage of insults.

John sighed. "I'm telling you, I've known him for years. He does that to everyone and anyone. You Barkleys just happen to offer him some really big targets. I find him exhausting and – unpleasant. And I'm continually amazed that someone hasn't shot him dead for his mouth. I mean look, he got _Audra_ to belt him. How is it he's still alive?"


	10. Chapter 9 - Moving Upcountry

_Oh think what anxious moments pass between_

 _The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;_

 _Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time,_

 _Fill'd up with horror, and big with death._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato, A Tragedy in Five Acts", 1823_

 _Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity._

 _George Eliot, "Janet's Repentance", 1857_

 ** _Jamestown, California, November 1874_**

Sheriff Peale ushered the four dusty travelers from his office on a river of obsequious encouragement, faint praise, and poorly-disguised contempt. His face was aching, as much from the fixed smile he had maintained as from the impact of Miss Barkley's gloved hand. The smile vanished the moment his door was closed.

His restless hands became still. He took on a thoughtful, almost meditative look as he crossed his arms over his chest and gazed at the floor. There was no sign now of the buzzing, restless inquisitor his visitors had found so unsettling. He began to pace, slowly, mulling over the encounter, quietly simmering his venom and considering how best to put these latest ingredients to use.

They were so wonderfully unseemly, these four, each so arrogant in their own way, each so _offensive_ to the proper order of things. He nurtured a deep, energizing feeling of outrage, enjoying the taste of it as it hummed in his belly. He looked to the open door to the cell blocks in the back of the building with a faint smile. Peale was certain his current guest in the lock-up would be useful; at the very least, he would be very entertaining to turn loose on the trail of this band of miscreants. But first he needed to catch up with them himself and guide them in the proper direction.

 ** _Jamestown-Sonora Road, November, 1874_**

John, Audra, Rivka, and Heath rode eastward out of Jamestown with a collective sigh of relief. The two women gave Nox and Nike their heads for a brief stretch up the road, just for fun, while the men kept a pace more suitable to the pack horse Heath was leading. Charger danced and fussed and complained, whinnying his annoyance as the two mares galloped off. John listened to Heath quietly admonish the young stallion, and admired the fact that at no point did he have the slightest feeling that the rider was off-balance, or that the horse would actually do anything more than make a noisy show of his displeasure.

He noticed, though, when Heath winced and shifted himself in the saddle, and saw him lean slightly to take his weight off his right hip. His gaze was distant and preoccupied. John found himself once again picturing Heath as he first saw him, his clothing dark with blood from a bullet wound in his right flank, and struggling to stay upright and meet the eyes of the marshal come to arrest him and take him back to prison.

"How you holdin' up, Heath?"

"Hmm? Oh, alright, I guess." He shifted his weight again and switched the lead line out of his aching right hand, as Charger tossed his head and shied a few steps to the side. "Hey, cut it out, Champ. You're making old Tumbleweed here nervous. He's not used to trailin' with a fool horse like you." He smiled a bit wistfully. "Y'know, I'm glad he's kickin' up a little bit of a fuss. I feel like he's been so careful with me since I came back, nervous – like he's unsure of me. Or just that he knows there's something different. Maybe it's a good sign he's showing me some spirit, fightin' me just a little."

"Well he sure wasn't holding anything back night before last when you went tearing off into the dark."

"If you say so," Heath said without thinking. "He was soaked and I was sore enough when we came back, so we must have ridden pretty hard –" He stopped when he realized what he had said. He looked down and away, wincing again, though not from physical discomfort this time.

Silence comes in many varieties, and John Smith was man who was comfortable with most of them. It served him quite well in his line of work, particularly as it was coupled with an intelligent and highly developed ability to pay attention. He noticed Heath turn his face away, and he settled back in the saddle himself, gray eyes tracking the two women riding together up ahead. What Heath had just said struck him as very strange, and very disturbing. He waited. He was aware of Heath's rising discomfort next to him, though, and he knew Heath to be an extraordinarily silent man himself. He decided to take advantage of their temporary solitude to press the question.

"If _I_ say so? Son, maybe you should explain to me what you mean by that, because I don't like the sound of it."

Heath looked up then and followed John's gaze to see Rivka laughing with Audra as they reached a crest of the undulating, rising road before them. The look on his face, John thought, was almost pleading. _Though to whom, and for what?_

Heath sighed. "I promised her I would be honest," he said.

"And?"

"And – I don't remember riding out on Charger."

John took this in. "What _do_ you remember?"

"I was jumpy – talking about those two being attacked up in the Stanislaus got me remembering some stuff from when I was a kid – I left to get outside, hoping to calm down – then nothing. Until about four hours later, though it took me a while to figure even that out." His voice was tight, rough. The fear squeezed at his throat; it was making him angry, and he was learning that particular mix of feelings was one that could pull the rug out from under him in short order. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath and try to relax. He ran a hand over his face and then rubbed the back of his head as he looked up into the mountains, feeling the echo of pain and dizziness. "Look, John, I don't know –"

He was interrupted by distant shouts from Audra and Rivka – they were waving excitedly to them and pointing up the road to a point beyond the men's line of sight.

"I wonder if they've spotted the peddler."

John kept his eyes on Heath. "Guess we'd best go see."

Heath glanced at John, tried to settle himself down. "John, I don't know what the hell this is or really what to do about it. All I know is like I told Nick, we've both known of soldiers who would go blank like that. Lose time. They burn out. They drink themselves to death. They kill themselves, or get someone else to do it for them. They don't live very long, one way or another, from what I can see. Is that what I am? Is it where I'm - where I'm headed? I hope not - I surely don't _want_ to believe that - but -" He shook his head, a look of defeat in his eyes that made John very uneasy. "But for now let's – let's just go find these two kids from New York, OK?"

"OK, son. We've got your back. Will you at least let us help you figure it out?" He waited. Heath hesitated a moment, then nodded. John figured that would have to do for now, and turned to look up the road. "Alright. Let's go see what they found."

 ** _Sutamasina, April 1859_**

 _"My uncles say they will take care of moving you. They cannot find Husu, and I have to go look for him. Scouts have seen the scalp hunters coming our way – they have found the hidden path to our camp. We have to go, now, and I have to find Husu."_

 _"Be careful –" Heath mumbled. "Find Husu. Go find him. He is little. Be careful –" He felt Teleli squeeze his arm once, then he was gone._

Heath drowsed and floated in a confused place where voices moved around him, angry, frightened, and unintelligible. He felt sure he could see movement in the darkness that filled his eyes. He tried to sit up, to call out, but he couldn't seem to move for the fog that weighed him down. He opened his mouth, and the fog poured in, filled him up, muffled him in silence.

There were loud voices then suddenly, and ungentle, hurried hands laid hold of him. They began to lift him, but there was argument on either side, and he was shot through with pain as his broken leg was dropped to the ground and fingers gripped the hair at the back of his head. He grimaced, tears slipping from his eyes, but still he could not rise up through the fog to speak. Argument, questions, and finally orders were barked from a man at the door. In his drugged state, Heath could hear the tone and the rhythm of the dialogue, and despite the unfamiliar words, he needed no translation.

 _We're supposed to bring him, right? That's what Papati said. That's what he told the White man._

 _No. There's no time. Scalpers are coming. Leave him._

 _But Papati –_

 _No. Leave him._

 _And Teleli?_

 _Teleli will do as he's told. He will find Husu and come with the village. Leave the White boy. Now. All of you. Go._

The hands let go, and Heath felt himself fall back down to the pile of blankets on the floor, his head pounding and spinning and his broken leg seeming to send lightning bolts of pain through his whole body.

He managed to roll to the side before he vomited, hoping he was able to get most of it onto the dirt floor. He felt himself drifting off to sleep again, though, even as he kept a white-knuckled grip on the bedding below him, imagining it might help the room stop swimming around him. _Guess that potion'll make it easier after all,_ he thought. _Maybe I'll just sleep through the rest of it._

He woke sometime later, his heart immediately racing at the unmistakable sounds of armed, mounted, English-speaking men and the crackle of torches. Now the voices were full of angry disappointment and brutal contempt for the "Digger Indians" that had managed to flee before they arrived.

"Gotta chase those savages even further up now. Let's burn this nest down and move on."

"Check inside the chief's house and the roundhouse first before you torch it. Maybe something worth keeping."

Heath stared wide-eyed into the pulsing blackness, his mouth dry with terror. _Will they kill me first before they do anything else? I've heard they scalp people while they're still alive –_ He was starting to hyperventilate with fear as he heard boots approaching the roundhouse. Suddenly, he felt a small hand clamp over his mouth and another hand pull him by the front of his shirt, commanding him wordlessly to move over. He slid himself to the side and into a depression in the ground beside the pile of blankets. "Me'weh, shhh," he heard Husu whisper, and they lay down tucked up close against the side of the slightly raised platform that had been Heath's bed. Husu quickly covered them both with a rough blanket that smelled of acorns and moss. "Shhh…" Hidden, terrified, still Heath felt the drug pushing him down again, and he struggled to stay awake.

Boots stomped in to the roundhouse, right up to the pile of bedding. The smell of whiskey and tobacco was jarring, a rude intrusion into the rain-soaked air of the roundhouse. The man grabbed a few of the skins from the bed, then threw them back down as not worth the trouble to roll up and take. He turned and left.

"Nothing worth keeping. Torch it."


	11. Chapter 10 - You Are Not Lost

_Ce qu'on ne peut dire et ce qu'on ne peut taire, la musique l'exprime._

 _Music expresses that which cannot be said, and on which it is impossible to be silent._

 _Victor Hugo (1864)_

* * *

 _Now all my singing Dreams are gone,  
But none knows where they have fled  
Nor by what trails they have left me._

 _Return, O Dreams of my heart,_  
 _And sing in the Summer twilight,_  
 _By the creek and the almond thicket_  
 _And the field that is bordered with lupins!_

 _Now is my refuge to seek_  
 _In the hollow of friendly shoulders,_  
 _Since the singing has stopped in my pulse_  
 _And the earth and the sky refuse me;_  
 _Now must I hold by eyes of a friend_  
 _When the high white stars are unfriendly._

 _Over-sweet is the refuge for trusting;_  
 _Return and sing, O my Dreams,_  
 _In the dewy and palpitant pastures,_  
 _Till the love of living awakes_  
 _And the strength of the hills uphold me._

 _Paiute Song in the Time of Depression*_

* * *

 ** _Jamestown-Sonora Road, November 1874_**

"Did they ride on up the road? I can't see them anymore," John said, sounding worried. He stood in his stirrups as he scanned the rising and falling terrain ahead of them.

Heath did the same, then sat back and clucked Charger and Tumbleweed to a quicker pace. "Think so. Wouldn't surprise me. Rivka at least has more sense than Audra when it comes to knowing who's dangerous and who isn't." He paused, considering. "Though she's still a bit too brave sometimes for my comfort. Some of the neighborhoods and situations she's gone into in San Francisco sound pretty scary to me. Those lady doctors at her hospital take care of the poorest, most desperate people in the city."

"Hope you're right – I wish they'd waited," John muttered. He was acutely aware, in that moment, of the weight of the responsibility he bore shepherding these three youngsters through what was still wild and unpredictable territory. Three _children_ – Victoria's, Hadassah's, and yes, his own, now. That awareness was accompanied by a metallic taste of fear that he knew was uncharacteristic for him, and he made note of it even as he ordered himself to steady down and pay attention.

He felt a flood of relief (and made note of that, too) as they approached the place where they had last seen the women and could hear sounds of laughter and animated conversation. He and Heath shared a quick – relieved – smile as they crested the rise and descended toward the wagon not far ahead. The peddler was evidently already setting up camp for the night, having parked his wagon off the road on a pleasant flat space beside a small running creek. Audra and Rivka had both dismounted, and Rivka was deeply engaged in dialogue with a tall, thin, slightly stooped middle-aged man, translating continuously to keep Audra in the conversation. The peddler looked up as the men approached.

The pleasure in his expression vanished abruptly when he saw the U.S Marshal insignia, to be replaced by suspicion and fear. He spoke accusingly to Rivka, not taking his eyes off of the two lawmen. She responded definitively, reassuringly, but with seriousness, as she knew he had well-founded reasons to fear the law in these parts. He turned to look her in the eye, assessing her veracity. She said something further in reference to Sheriff Peale – John and Heath could catch at least that much – and the peddler visibly relaxed, then burst out laughing. Rivka smiled at Audra, and then made introductions, translating as she went.

"Herr Schoenberg, this is my father-in-law-to-be, U.S. Marshal John Smith, and my fiancé, Heath Barkley, Audra's brother. And this is –" The peddler interrupted her with a warm but scolding tone as she turned to introduce him. She laughed and obliged him. "I am instructed to drop my formality and 'all this _Herr_ nonsense'. This is Moshe Schoenberg, peddler of small housewares and essentials, Master Violinist and music instructor, we've just discovered he is from a _shtetl_ \- a village - not far from my own family's point of origin. It turns out we were _landsleit,_ almost neighbors, so to speak. He came over only just this past year –" she paused, and John could see her flush slightly as she worked to contain some difficult emotion. Heath, too, was watching her closely. "He came here alone. His whole family, the whole shtetl, is gone. The pogroms." She cleared her throat, swallowed. "He tells me our own village, where my father was rabbi, was also razed over a year ago. We had heard rumors, of course, but most everyone we knew when we fled eleven years ago left when we did." She turned back to Moshe, unable to continue for a moment. John had a feeling that a world of mourning and memory and understanding passed between the two of them as they looked silently at each other. The creek bubbled and sang in the silence, and Moshe nodded to her to go on. Rivka took a deep breath, bringing herself back to the present with an effort. "Moshe has information, I think, that brings us closer to finding Peter."

"That is very good news," John said, as he and Heath dismounted. He shook hands with Moshe. "Very pleased to meet you. I am so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine."

"Thank you, Marshal," Moshe answered in heavily accented English.

Heath had walked the horses a little ways off, loosened their cinches, and let them take a drink of water while he washed his own face and hands. Once he'd tethered the animals and checked on Nike and Nox, he walked back over, drying his hands on his shirt front. He nodded to Moshe and extended his hand. "Howdy. Welcome to California, sir. I overheard some of what Rivka was saying. Must have been a hard road for you. I'm sorry."

"I thank you – Heath, your name is?"

"Yes, sir."

Moshe winked at Rivka. _"Ehr is sheine - aun heflech, nu? Ehr hat sechel, Ich hofn?"_ (Handsome - and polite, I see. He has brains, I hope?)

To John's surprise, Rivka blushed, clearly both pleased and a little embarrassed. She smiled, glancing at Heath. " _Ja, sechel aun hachma, afilu mer vi sheinkeit._ " (Yes, brains and wisdom, even more than beauty.)

 _"Far a goyische mensch?"_

 _"Afilu far a yiddische mensch, landsman."_

Heath watched the exchange, knowing they were talking about him but enjoying Rivka's suddenly girlish demeanor. There was something of a loving uncle in this peddler's manner that seemed to bring it out in her. She looked at Heath and they shared a smile.

"Moshe wanted to know if you have brains to go with your good looks and polite manners."

Heath laughed. "And…?"

"And I told him, you'll be happy to know, that you are smart even by Jewish standards."

"Thank you, darlin', that does make me happy."

John and Audra, too, were following this conversation with amusement. Curiosity won out, though, and John spoke up. "Before you tell us what you've learned, I wanted to ask - what language are you speaking? It sounds like German, but it isn't. Is it?"

"We both speak German," Rivka explained, "but what we're speaking is Yiddish. It's a hybrid of German, Hebrew, some Russian and Polish mixed in – it's the language of our villages and households, our _Mamaloshen,_ our mother tongue. But Moshe does speak English, contrary to what that horrible Martin Peale says."

"Forgive me, but English I do not speak very well. Enough to buy and sell and ask for a haircut at the barber, perhaps. But with such a lovely _iberzetser –_ " He bowed in deference to Rivka. "I think I will have her help me."

Heath considered the road winding up to the east, their shadows already long as the low winter sun sank toward the western horizon. "Gonna get dark quickly. Moshe, if you wouldn't object to our company for the night, maybe we could set up camp here with you and talk over dinner. Feels like it's going to be a cold one tonight, we should probably get a fire going and a good supply of wood."

" _Bruchim haBa'im,_ welcome, friends, please, join me."

The night came on quickly, and with it some mist, though not with the impenetrable density of the tule fog of the valley, John was glad to see. Heath appreciated that as well – as tenuous as his hold seemed to be these days on the reins of his memory, it helped to have such pleasant, engaging company, a bright fire, and simple, necessary tasks to keep him busy; and he was very happy not to be closed in with blank gray walls of fog. While John and Audra got some stew bubbling over the fire, Moshe shared with them what he knew, while Rivka translated.

"Rivka explained to me what you are seeking. I have not met the boy you describe, but I am almost certain this is his violin." He rose to bring the instrument in its case out into the firelight. The case appeared to be a match to the one they had found scorched in the Dutch couple's wagon. This one had clearly been battered and muddied and even dunked in water at some point in its history, though Moshe had clearly made some effort to clean and repair it. "It had a carrying strap. It was stained – probably with blood, though I tried not to think about that. I got rid of that part." He opened the case. The inside was a beautiful deep green velvet, cradling a violin of burnished, red-toned wood. "I will be honest with you – this violin is worth far, far more than what I paid for it. It is a Guarneri violin, over one hundred years old."

"Where did you find it?" John asked, looking at the instrument with renewed interest.

"At the trading post – the outdoor market area – outside of Sonora. The market is part of my route, buying, trading, selling. It's mostly full of journeymen, miners, militiamen – and sometimes Indians, trying to barter and scrape together enough to survive. When I saw Dr. Robinson, the town physician, trying to sell something at one of the peddlers' wagons – well, that's not a common sight, and I was curious. When I saw the case he was carrying, then I ran over.

"I thought I would faint when I opened it and saw what he was trying to sell. Ten dollars he wanted for this. **_Ten dollars!_** He didn't even notice my reaction – he was just glad to get some cash and get away from the rabble of the market. He did allow me to walk with him for just a bit, because I had to ask him where he had gotten it, and I was enough of a _nudnik_ that he answered me finally, if only to get rid of me. He said he had been given it in payment for his medical care by a badly injured boy who had been found nearly dead up river east of town. He gave me the impression, at the time, that the boy was still gravely ill and under his care. This was about two months ago. Perhaps the boy – you said his name is Peter, correct? – perhaps Peter is still with him. Or at least the doctor may have an idea where he is now, yes?"

As their dinner simmered by the camp fire, there was general agreement that visiting Dr. Robinson in Sonora was the next stop on their quest to find Nox's owners. Moshe admired the size and beauty of the horse as she browsed by the creek with the other mounts. Heath had just finished getting them groomed and settled for the night; there was some decent greenery for grazing, and so he had elected to hobble rather than tether the horses, allowing them to forage and drink as they wished. The physical activity warmed him, and as he returned to the fireside, he shrugged off his fleece-lined coat and hung it together with his hat on an overhanging oak branch. Kneeling to add a log to the fire, he looked sympathetically at the violinist, marveling at his fortitude to move forward and hold on to life in the face of such terrible loss and adversity. Heath sensed, also, that this was a man of considerable intelligence, and (he suspected) considerable skill and talent. Yet here he was, making his living as a peddler in the foothills of the Sierra. The man's story spoke to Heath not only of deep humility and courage, but of hope, and faith in the value of life. He could see joy in Moshe's eyes as he teased Rivka and made her laugh, and he wondered how long it had been since he had been able to joke and express himself so freely in his mother tongue.

"Moshe," Heath asked, "would you play us something?"

His request was enthusiastically endorsed by the group, and Moshe, clearly pleased, brought out the instrument, spread rosin on the bow, and, with familiarity but unmistakable reverence, stood and lifted it to his shoulder, tuning it expertly. He gave Rivka a small bow.

"First, a familiar melody for Dr. Rivka Levi, beloved daughter of the esteemed Rebbe Solomon Levi and Dr. Hadassah Levi." Moshe closed his eyes, took a breath in through his nose, and with a stroke of his bow the violin began to sing. The slow, mournful strain in a minor key wrapped around them, holding them close there by the fire, and yet seeming to open them to the whole star-covered expanse of the world. Rivka caught her breath and smiled the moment the song began, and Heath saw tears in her eyes as under her breath she sang the traditional Yom Kippur prayer that accompanied the melody. There was a hush as the last note resonated upward and faded into the trees.

Rivka rose to hug him. "Oh, thank you, Moshe, that was so beautiful. I wish my parents could hear you play."

Audra too had been mesmerized, and was about to add her praise to Rivka's, when her eyes widened with a gasp. "Nox…?"

She had come, slowly, quietly to the edge of the circle of firelight, her whole attention focused on the music, the violin, and the violinist. She knew this man was not the one whom she sought, but still, she couldn't keep away, couldn't help coming close to the soaring voice that to her meant love and family. She whickered low in her chest, a yearning sound, and she stretched her nose out to touch gently the violin, and the arm that held it. Then she withdrew slightly, and dropped her dark head back down. Audra hurried to her and stroked her neck, murmuring promises to her that they would find her family, soon.

"That is remarkable," said Moshe, solemnly.

"Truly," agreed John.

"I think I will play a slightly happier tune," Moshe decided. "Perhaps I can lift the spirit of the sad horse too. This is _Chaconne_. The score was discovered a few years ago by Ferdinand David, the greatest violinist of my time, if you ask me. And, we were friends, for a time, as students. He was brilliant. He converted, though, and was so successful, well, he had his own path. He died last year, very suddenly. But I go off the track. _Chaconne_. Probably written two hundred years ago, by Tomaso Vitali, but found and raised back up to life by my friend Ferdinand."

He tuned the violin again, very slightly, the changing temperature having altered the tension of the strings and wood. Audra whispered to Rivka, "Converted? What does he mean?"

"Ferdinand David was very famous. He is – was - a Jew, but he converted to Protestantism as an adult. It opens doors, allows one to advance and rise in certain kinds of careers and in society, if one renounces Judaism for a Christian faith. In Hamburg, it was best to be Protestant." Rivka explained this dispassionately as she waited breathlessly for Moshe to bring the violin again to life.

Audra took in this information, frowning slightly, but then as the music began, she was immediately caught up. After the initial melody – breathtakingly beautiful and sad – the variations became increasingly agile and airborne, leaping and dancing as though the cascading notes were part of the night breeze and the bubbling creek. On impulse, Audra spun over to Heath, taking both his hands and leading him to waltz with her around the fire. Smiling, he rose willingly, then pulled her in close and dipped her down, as she laughed up at him. Rivka curtsied to John, and he too waltzed happily around the camp with his future daughter-in-law in his arms. At some unspoken cue, they changed partners, and Rivka stood on tiptoe and kissed John's rough cheek.

"Good practice for the wedding, Papa," she whispered with a smile and a wink, as she spun away into Heath's waiting arms. Then it was Audra with him, dancing like a fairy tale princess, but grinning up at him like a cowgirl.

"Marshal, I do believe you're blushing just a bit."

"I believe I am. You two young ladies are going to keep me on my toes well into old age, I think."

She gazed up at him, suddenly serious. "I hope so, Marshal. Truly, I hope so."

He met her eyes, smiled gently. "As long as I have feet to stand on."

They danced, and she was silent, regarding him thoughtfully. "I don't know what to call you," she said, finally.

"I'm not sure either. But I'm certain between the two of us we'll figure out something."

That answer seemed to please her, John thought. She brightened. "You dance well," she pronounced. "That's good. Mother **_loves_** to dance." They turned together once more as the music ended. He bowed slightly over her hand, very formally, and she hugged him, very informally. John smiled, both surprised and pleased. Heath caught his eye and grinned, thinking, _that's Audra._

They all four turned to Moshe with animated praise for his playing. He entertained them with a few more popular tunes, some cowboy songs and a jig or two, and then he turned to Nox, who had remained, waiting and listening through his whole performance. He laid a soft hand on her forehead. "Do not despair," he said to her. "You are not lost. Do not despair."

 _You are not lost._ Heath, tending the diminished campfire, heard the words echo as he looked into the veil of smoke and sparks and heat-distorted air. The fitful wind shifted abruptly, and his throat and eyes burned as a billow of acrid smoke and ash enveloped him. Briefly blinded, he brought a hand to his face as he coughed and backed up. The earth turned sickeningly and vanished from under his feet, and with a ferocity that took his breath away, it was upon him.

 _No. No. Stop, dammit, I'm not **doing** this, I'm - _

He could hear Rivka calling his name from far, far away as he staggered and dropped to his knees, one hand groping for balance on the ground, the other covering his burning eyes.

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, April, 1859_**

"Me'weh, Me'weh!"

The pleading, desperate, terrified sound of Husu's voice cut through the fog and yanked Heath awake. He felt the boy's small, frantic hands shaking him, begging him to wake up. He gasped for air, and immediately began coughing as his lungs filled with hot smoke.

 _Smoke – heat – fire_ \- roaring above and around them. Staring wide-eyed about him, even in the midst of the burgeoning apocalypse that was surrounding them, Heath thought, _I can see! I can see **something** , I wasn't imagining it before, there's dark, and less dark, and something moving – _

Husu shook him again. Heath could hear tears and terror in his voice, and all thought left him other than the need to get this little boy out of the burning building. He reached out toward the fear and wrapped his arm around the small child, pulling him close against his chest. He could feel his warm skin, his rapid breathing, the hammering of his heart against his ribs. Keeping low as he could below the smoke, Heath began crawling toward where he remembered the door of the roundhouse to be, crying in pain as he dragged his broken, splinted leg behind him. His eyes were pouring water, his throat was on fire, and he was coughing more than he was breathing. Husu, he could tell, was slipping away; the child had gone limp against him, his breathing growing shallow and faint. Heath could feel the panic of his own approaching suffocation rising up around him, and he knew he was out of time.

He reached the door. It was slightly askew, but Teleli's uncles had clearly replaced it adequately when they left him here. Now it was too hot to touch, as sparks began to rain down from the low ceiling. Husu had stopped moving, and Heath felt his own consciousness beginning to slide through his fingers. Desperately, he changed his position, and began kicking the door with his good leg, over and over again, roaring his frustration, shouting his hoarse defiance at the unyielding boards.

 _"Heath!"_

"Hannah…? Hannah? Hannah, here, I'm here -!" He yelled her name over and over, his voice and his strength nearly gone. He hear banging, scraping, then the groaning protest of the overheated door as she pried it away from the lintel. All at once, it sprang open, and a gush of flames leapt inward, riding the blast of fresh air from the outdoors. Heath flinched away from the lunging heat, instinctively trying to cover Husu's body with his own. He choked on the smell of burning hair and cloth, as Hannah's crisis-strong hands grabbed him and the Miwok boy and pulled them out into the blessed open air of the devastated village.

Hannah was throwing her poncho over both of them, extinguishing the last of the fire that had been so eager to consume them both, and Heath ran his hands over the little boy, weeping now with relief to feel his breathing, his hammering heart, and his grasping fingers. "Husu – he's OK? Is he OK?"

"He's got some burns, but I think we can get him patched up," she said, still breathless.

He searched the shifting light and dark around him with his watering eyes, dizzy and still unable to see anything identifiable. "Hannah," he rasped, barely able to make a sound. "Hannah, I can't see, where are you –"

He felt her strong arms come around him, her face wet with tears against the side of his face. "Oh, child, thank the Lord I found you, oh my child."

"Hannah –" He clung to her and cried like the little boy he was. "Hannah, I was lost, I thought I was lost – I heard you singing to me to hold on – I was so scared -"

"Shhh, child, you're not lost. Don't you fear. You're not lost."


	12. Ch 11 - Build Thy House Upon This Grave

**_Jamestown-Sonora Road, November, 1874_**

 _Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye  
Than twenty of their swords._

 _William Shakespeare  
Romeo and Juliet. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 71._

* * *

"Heath?"

Rising from her seat by the campfire, Rivka was turning to join Audra and Moshe over by his wagon to see what interesting items he had collected in his travels. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she had seen Heath stand suddenly and back away from the fire, coughing and raising a hand to his eyes. He seemed uncharacteristically off-balance. Concerned, she turned back and hurried over to him. "Heath? Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

He didn't answer her. In fact, he backed even further away, stumbling slightly, still covering his eyes. She heard him speaking as if to himself, a frustrated, desperate rasp of anger barely loud enough for her to make out the words.

"No. No. _Stop_ this, dammit –" He staggered again, and fell to his knees just as she reached his side. "I'm not _doing_ this, I'm n –" He broke off, coughing. She could feel him shaking all over, his breath coming rough and shallow. She called to him again, but he still wasn't answering her, and that worried her very much.

John appeared at her side and knelt down beside them. "Is he responding to you?" he asked quietly, his eyes on Heath.

"No," she said. "He's not. Is this what he's been avoiding telling me about?"

"I expect so," he answered gravely. "I know there's been something different, something that's gotten worse, and he hasn't wanted to talk about it. Jarrod knows the most of it, I think. Nick, I'm guessing, shook some of it out of him yesterday. Heath only just admitted to me today that he's been losing whole chunks of time. Says mostly what happens is he gets pulled out of himself into some memory, which has been bad enough, but he at least _remembers_ the leaving and the coming back and the crazy thinking in between. Those're his words, not mine," he added, when Rivka gave him a skeptical look. "But then night before last, when he rode out from Hannah's –" he paused, wondering if what he had to say would sound too crazy.

"He doesn't remember any of it, does he," she finished for him. John shook his head no. She sighed. "I wondered. Riding off like that, that was strange. And it was pretty obvious that whatever had happened scared the hell out of him." She kept her arms around Heath's shoulders, watching him closely.

John nodded his agreement. "Rivka, is this something you've seen? Do you know what to do to help?" Looking at her, he could feel an echo of the helplessness he felt when his Caroline fell ill with a cancer, so long ago. There was that desperate wish for a miracle; and the constant urge to ask, just once more: _Doctor, isn't there anything else you can do?_

 _Though surely this isn't as bad as the cancer,_ he reassured himself. _Not so relentless. Not so lethal. Is it?_

Rivka thought a moment before she answered John's question. "I've read about it. This isn't a good sign, I can say that much. My great-uncle in Philadelphia has written a great deal about the effects of trauma on soldiers. My mother is very familiar with his work – and she did so much to help Heath not only survive Carterson, but actually recover from it. But this – this isn't good. I might have to write to her –" She scowled. "But first I need this boy to wise up and tell me what the _hell_ is going on with him." She shook him lightly, gripping the heavy cotton of his shirtsleeves. " _Dammit_ , cowboy. You're making me mad."

As if she had spoken a command, Heath lifted his head and opened his eyes. Then he held still for several seconds, with his eyes on the ground. John didn't rightly know how the clock in Heath's head worked the way it did, but he had the distinct impression Heath was counting, or measuring, or just _feeling_ somehow where he had been in time, and then placing himself where he was now.

Heath had kept still and listened, waiting until he felt his mind and his body were back in the same place and time. There were voices. _There's something different – something's gotten worse._ That was John. The quiet speech, the obvious worry of the two people beside him gradually filtered in and grew clear. He heard Rivka. _This not a good sign, I can say that much._

 _This is not good._

Deliberately, with fierce concentration, Heath unclenched his fists, took a deep breath, and bit back the boiling frustration and the string of curses he wanted to yell at the implacable sky. He was angry. He was ashamed. But more than these, he was terrified. He still hadn't looked at Rivka. His mind was a jumbled mess of smoke and charred wood and tears, and he was afraid to look at her. He stared instead at the ground, wishing, not for the first time, that it could just swallow him up.

 _These mountains,_ he thought, _these mountains are big enough. They could take in all of this pain and fear and sorrow. Take it in, bury it, heal it over so I don't have to hurt anyone anymore. I don't think I'll ever be big enough –_ There came flashing image of falling; branches snapping; he blinked, and it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He felt Rivka's hands on his arms, shaking him, gently.

 _Say something,_ he ordered himself. _You have to say something._

"I'm – I'm sorry. I'm OK, you don't have to – have to –" He wiped his eyes and stood quickly, backing up a pace, still not looking at either John or Rivka. His hands were shaking and he shoved them in his pockets. "I – I just need to get away from the smoke for a minute." He turned and practically ran back toward the road.

The Jamestown-Sonora road was a good wide thoroughfare, and Heath stopped in the middle of it, tipping his head back to look up at the thick brilliance of the stars and a waning half-moon. _Coward, Heath, you're a coward. The least you can do is be honest and let her choose._

 _Hannah, how do I know? You told me I wasn't lost, but how do I know?_

 _You gotta set aside the burdens that aren't yours to carry, Heath, 'cause you got a long ways yet to climb, and there's gonna be times you gonna think about giving up. Keep your eyes on us, child. Keep your eyes on us._

 _But Hannah, I can't see -_

"Heath?"

He heard her quiet step on the road behind him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, suddenly remembering that March sunrise in 1865 when Rivka had come to say goodbye to him as he prepared to ride out of the open gate of Carterson Prison. Barely sixteen, he had spent almost a quarter of his life either as a soldier, or as a prisoner of war. On that March day in New Mexico, suddenly, he was no longer a soldier, having been summarily and dishonorably dismissed from the United States Army on the basis of his underage enlistment; and he was no longer a prisoner of war, as the War between the States had come to a close and General Canby had come to liberate the few surviving souls in the prison camp.

General Canby had liberated Heath Thomson as well, liberated him to the four winds, and may God have mercy on his soul: dishonored, destitute, and with instructions to clear out quick and be grateful he wasn't being court-martialed.

Rivka was a child then. With the liberation, her family had been reunited, and they were happily preparing to go home, together. Still, Rivka had come to him. She had hugged him and made him promise to find her in Albuquerque. He had promised her he wouldn't disappear.

Rivka was a child then, and so was he, or he should have been, anyway.

They weren't children anymore, and he felt in so many ways more broken now than even he was when he left Carterson. She needed to know what he was, so she could decide; though how he would survive her leaving him, he had no idea. He stood, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, bracing himself. Waiting for judgement.

"Heath -"

She stood behind him, and he thought he heard tears in her voice. _Darlin', please, do what you need to do. I don't want you to be sad._

"Don't leave me, Heath, please don't –" She _was_ crying, and that so distressed him that he didn't at first take in what she had actually said. He turned to her, only wanting to find a way to ease her mind and set her free from all this.

Their eyes met, and she knew he thought himself hopeless: a burden to her, a hazard, a plague. His love for her was clear to see, but it was like a blazing sunset, threatening her with an unbearable loss. Desperate, she kept talking, fearing he might vanish from before her eyes if she didn't bring him back to her that very moment. "I love you. I don't care about anything else. I told you in Nevada I wanted to be your wife even if they locked you up for a hundred years. Whatever's going on with you now, we can figure it out. We can figure it out, please, I just – I don't want to lose you. I love you. I can't lose you. I don't know what I would – I can't –" She broke off with a sob, feeling like she was babbling. When she spoke again, it was barely a whisper. "Heath, if you love me, don't leave me. Please don't take yourself from me."

He remembered the first time they kissed, the two of them alone behind the barn of her family's Albuquerque home. The waning day was redolent of juniper and hay and the summer-warm planks of pine wood he'd been using to repair the siding. She had come to find him then too, and as she came into his arms he admitted to himself what had always been true: there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. He had kissed her then, and loved her, and felt her breath mix with his; in the blaze of that red-orange New Mexico sunset, he felt as though the two of them had set the whole sky on fire.

It was nighttime now, far from New Mexico, but she was here with him. The moonlight wove strands of silver through her dark hair, and showed him the tears on her face.

"I could never leave you," he said. "Never."

He was still afraid to open himself to the feeling of relief and homecoming that was welling up inside of him; afraid to believe that she wanted this ragged version of him. She was just looking at him, her face unreadable in the dark, and he knew he had to say something more. "I love you. I should've told you. I was a coward. But John is right. There's something different, something's worse – _I'm_ worse. I'm not – not like I was before. You deserve to know that so you can choose."

She moved toward him, shaking her head, and spoke now with certainty. "You are who you've always been, in all the ways that matter to me, cowboy. This other problem, this going away problem – it's not good, but it's part of the same beast you've been wrestling since I've known you. Just seems the beast has grown a new set of particularly nasty horns."

He stroked a dark errant strand of her hair from her cheek. "Darlin', I'm so sorry."

She looked into his eyes. "I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

"We'll figure this out. You understand me? And, by the way, I've come up with a plan to get you jumping back up on your horse again. The aim, of course, is for it no longer to feel like some sort of medieval torture. I'm pretty sure you'll get to that point eventually."

He studied her face, wondering if she was joking.

"We'll get started on that bright and early tomorrow morning."

Nope, she wasn't joking. She looked completely, impenetrably serious. Heath took in this information with equanimity. He reckoned that either he was in for a world of pain tomorrow morning, or he was going to have to think twice about teaching this girl to play poker.

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, April, 1859_**

 _Come hither in thy hour of strength;  
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!  
Here stretch thy body at full length;  
Or build thy house upon this grave. _

_William Wordsworth, "Epitaph for a Poet"_

* * *

Rain came down with a monotonous hiss as the young man rode slowly through the windless, foggy forest. He was glad for the steady drumming of the rain on his Stetson and the blank misty greyness all around. It was numbing, and he badly wanted to be numb. This was the last village he would have to ride through before he'd reach the rendezvous with their supply wagon en route to Pinecrest. At the young age of nineteen, he thought perhaps he'd never be able to look at another Indian settlement – or another Indian, for that matter - without weeping.

Seven villages. Six of them they'd reached ahead of the scalp hunters, though only two of those were able to get most of their people out of harm's way before the killers descended. Seven villages burned to the ground, and every inhabitant that had come within reach of the hunters' guns, knives, axes and torches had been slaughtered. The woods were redolent with the smell of burning acorns, as one food cache after another was found and torched. As he rode from one smoking, nightmarish village site to the next, scattered here and there through the woods, more evidence could be seen of the massacre that had taken place. The Miwok had fled for their lives, and they were cut down one by one, from the oldest to the youngest. Mothers lay dead with their babies in their arms, unburied, with no one to mourn or sing their grief over their bodies.

He had one last village to ride through, the one they called Sutamasina, the one where they had left behind that strangely silent blonde boy. He prayed fervently as he rode that he would not find that boy's body amongst the dead. He had felt sick and deeply uncomfortable as they had ridden away and left him behind.

He was a child, too young to be out in the wilderness alone. He was blind, he was injured, and the young man had not been at all confident that Papati's promise to protect the boy would be honored by his people. There had been much dissent, he and his father had seen that. The Miwok had ample reason to show no mercy to a White child when their children were routinely kidnapped and sold into slavery.

When, the following day, they learned the Miwok had indeed left the boy behind, his father asked him to ride back and look for him. He wanted him to confirm, one way or another – it seemed the least they could do. It would be a trail through hell, they both understood this. His father thanked him solemnly, and took his younger brother home by a different route.

The young man emerged from the fog into the village, and felt nausea rise sour in his throat as he saw the scorched charcoal circle that had been one of the beautifully built roundhouses the young man had ever seen. Not a single _umacha*_ was still standing, and the granaries had been burned as well. The standing trees had been blackened in the conflagration. The young man drew his horse to a halt, removed his hat, and bowed his head in grief.

He steeled himself, finally, and dismounted. He walked into the remains of the roundhouse, toward the partially burned pile of skins and blankets, thinking perhaps he'd find there the boy's remains. He found none, and was surprised to see the pile had been disturbed: the upper blankets and hides that had been burned had been tossed aside, and he could see that the ones protected underneath had been removed. He stood, lost in thought, until he heard a woman's voice.

"Excuse me, young man."

He spun, startled to see a small group sheltering under a perfectly camouflaged tent at the verge of the forest. "Who's there?"

He replaced his hat and tried to approach in as non-threatening a manner as possible. He knelt down to examine this unlikely group: a Negro woman, a small Miwok boy, the silent blonde boy from Strawberry, and joining them now, a sturdy, ferocious-looking teenaged Miwok boy with traditional linear tattoos extending from his lower lip to his navel. He wore a hapa'li root on a thong around his neck as a charm for skill in hunting. He rose from cover with a bow in hand, an arrow nocked, drawn, and pointed at the intruder's face. The young man remembered him as the one who translated for Papati. He raised his hands carefully, and said, "Friend."

The woman studied him silently, then said, "It's OK, Teleli." The teenager stood down, and then turned his complete attention to the care of the younger Miwok, who appeared to have suffered several burns.

"Hannah –" The blonde boy was reaching for her and she drew him close. He was looking around – looking at the young man, but not exactly at him.

The woman spoke. "My boy's eyesight seems to be coming back slowly, but he still can't see much more than shapes and shadows. He remembers your voice and your smell. He tells me you passed through here a few days ago warning the Miwok villages hereabouts."

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

He wondered if this Negro woman was the boy's mother, and if that why he had refused to say any more about where he was from or who his family was. If she was his mother, his father would certainly be White, and it was likely the boy had no last name or any White kin to claim him.

The young man thought he should try to help if he could, though. The teenage Miwok boy had announced he would be bringing the little one with him, to join up with the rest of the village where they were camped in the high country. The blonde boy's injuries were still sufficiently serious that walking or riding were out of the question, but the young man thought if he could get them on the supply wagon, the driver could get them back to Strawberry. Then he himself could finally head west toward home.

As he explained this plan to the Negro woman, he found he couldn't take his eyes off the blonde boy. The boy, for his part, seemed to sense when he was being stared at, and for a brief, shocking moment, their eyes met. His eyes were so blue. Sky blue.

 _Like mine_.

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, November, 1874_**

 _Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us  
Only what to our griping toil is due;  
But the sweet affluence of love and song,  
The rich results of the divine consents  
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,  
The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;  
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves  
And pirates of the universe, shut out  
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,  
Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our sick eyes,  
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,  
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay,  
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term;  
And life, shorn of its venerable length,  
Even at its greatest space is a defeat,  
And dies in anger that it was a dupe._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Blight"_

* * *

Nick came awake suddenly, strangely, in the middle of the night. He lay still in his bed for a moment, wondering what had roused him. It was still full dark, and rain was falling, but peacefully; the house and the grounds were quiet. Still, something nagged at him, and his thoughts went to Jarrod. His usually sanguine and pleasant brother had spent his Sunday afternoon and evening at home. He'd taken care of a few small legal and ranch-related tasks here and there, and worked briefly at his desk. The rest of the day – _and possibly well into the night,_ Nick thought, _because he was still at it when I went to bed_ \- Jarrod had been preoccupied. No, more than that: Nick was willing to go so far as to say Jarrod had been _brooding_. He'd looked distracted and not well-rested at breakfast; he didn't come into church with the family but instead paced around the churchyard; he barely touched his lunch and virtually ignored their mother's attempts to draw him into conversation. He'd paced the afternoon away on the back terrace, a trail of cigar smoke spiraling out behind him.

Dinner went much the same way as lunch, after which Jarrod went to the library and began looking through some of their father's old ranch journals and documents. These were some of the same stores of records he remembered Jarrod searching through late into night, the night Nick had beaten up a skinny, threadbare drifter who claimed to be Tom Barkley's bastard son; the night he and Jarrod had cornered that drifter there in that opulent study; declared him a fraud; and ordered him out of the house, off the ranch, and out of _their_ valley.

That night was still a painful memory for both of them. Jarrod had joined Nick in dismissing the drifter with an appearance of callous certainty that belied his many lingering doubts and questions. For the rest of that night, however, (until they were urgently called out to find their neighbor's home going up in flames) Jarrod had felt compelled to follow through on those doubts and questions, all of which centered on a time and a place – Strawberry, twenty-four years ago.

 _Why am I thinking about that now?_ Nick asked himself, annoyed that he couldn't get back to sleep. _Probably because that's where I left him last night._ He sat up, lit a match, and saw it was two-thirty in the morning. He wondered if Jarrod was still down in the study, searching through those boxes. _Dammit, I've got to get up for work in three hours._ But even as he grouched and complained to himself, he was up, pulling on his robe, and heading downstairs to check.

He found Jarrod sitting by the fire, a box of files beside him, and a few notebooks and maps open on the low marble table. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore to dinner, but his sleeves were rolled up, his tie and jacket thrown over a chair, his vest undone. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring into the flames, with a look of wide-eyed sadness on his face that Nick had never, in his memory, ever seen before. He suspected, in fact, that at some point this evening Jarrod had been crying. All annoyance was forgotten – what Nick felt squeezing in his chest right now was fear.

"Jarrod? What is it? What's wrong?" He came to sit across from him. "What's bothering you?"

Jarrod met his brother's worried eyes. He admitted to himself that he was very glad to have Nick there with him. Nick was the one he could talk to about this, and while he regretted that it was two-thirty in the morning, he really didn't want to sit alone with these thoughts for the rest of the night.

"What is it?" Nick asked again, more urgently.

"Nick, I'm sorry if I woke you. There's no pressing emergency or crisis, I promise. It's just that I –" He paused, wanting to contain his emotions, at least until he could explain himself. "I've been remembering something, from many years ago. I dreamt about it, or a piece of it anyway, last night. It's been on my mind all day. Fragments coming back to me, images – finally I had to go back through Father's journals, to see if they confirmed what I was remembering." His voice broke slightly, and he looked away to take a sip of the drink beside him – the very same drink he'd been nursing all evening since dinner, Nick was fairly sure.

 _No crisis, no emergency_ , Jarrod had said, but Nick's feeling of alarm was growing nonetheless. "Jarrod, just spit it out. You can fill in the details later, build your airtight case if you need to, but just tell me what the hell is wrong. What _is_ it?"

"OK, OK, Nick, keep it down." He glanced toward the stairs, but his eyes came back to Nick's face, and he smiled sadly, remembering his scrappy little brother as a teenager, all arms and legs. "It was such a terrible time, in so many ways, back during those years right before the war," he said, gesturing with a nod toward the journals and maps on the table. "Thinking back on it now, it was as though the whole world had gone mad with greed and violence – _our_ world, _our_ people had gone mad, that is. At the time, you and me, Nick, that was the world we were born into. I feel like we were born part of a swarm of locusts, the swarm of the White man, fighting to eat everything in his path. Our parents tried to lift us up, as much as they could, so we could learn to see a little bit beyond the mob, beyond our own immediate interests. But truly, Nick, the older I get, the more I see those years as time of such needless horror and violence and greed-driven, government-sponsored murder. I think history will judge us harshly, and rightly so. It was all around us, growing up, and during the 50's, it was especially bad up there in gold country."

"I remember it some," Nick said, leaning forward to match his brother's posture. He could see Jarrod was in pain and needed to talk this through, whatever it was. Resigned, Nick settled himself in to listen, trusting Jarrod would eventually bring him along to understand what it was that was tearing him apart and keeping them both away from a good night's sleep.

"Do you remember that spring that I came home from college early because of the cholera epidemic in the city, and you and I rode out with Father and a few of our men up into the Stanislaus to check on some mining and lumber sites he'd invested in?"

"Yeah," Nick nodded. "I was, oh, fifteen, maybe? And did I ever beg to go along on that trip. _You_ got to get out of school, there was no way _I_ was gonna be left behind. Mm-mm. No way."

Jarrod chuckled. "You _did_ beg. And bargain, and demand, and wheedle, and bribe. You exhausted all of us. Father told me finally he was going to bring you just so you could negotiate any deals we might make along the way. And I remember you were extremely well-behaved for most of that trip. Very low-profile."

"Well, I might have been young, but I wasn't completely stupid. Sometimes I know when to keep my head down."

"Agreed. You're many things, Nick, but you're not stupid." Jarrod looked fondly at Nick, but then the sadness rose again in his eyes and he dropped his gaze to the maps before him. "You see those marks on the map, all along the upper north fork of the Tuolumne and southward?" Nick nodded. "You remember what those were?"

Nick grew solemn, remembering. "Villages. Those were the Miwok villages Father tried to protect. That _was_ terrible," he added, softly.

"You know, back then our father was one of the only men in California who would deal fairly with the Indians who worked for us. It's one of the things I'm most proud of about him. Overwhelmingly the Indians in those days were treated like slaves – or in some ways worse than slaves, because the aim – by the bullet, or starvation, or disease, or kidnapping – the ultimate aim was to exterminate them. They didn't have the slave's advantage of being seen at least as a valuable piece of property." His voice was rough with disgust. "These days, fifteen years later, that job is almost complete. Do you know that the Indian population in California is one tenth what it was when I was born? One _tenth_ , Nick. Imagine if nine out of every ten people in Stockton died in your lifetime of murder, disease, and starvation. Then imagine that you're one of the one-in-ten that survived. You could try to live as a slave; you could be rounded up by the army to starve on a barren reservation, or you could try to forage off the land, most of which is now owned by someone else. And out there, of course, you're fair game for the bounty hunters. Even still today. No, history will not think well of us, not at all."

"Jarrod," Nick said gently, "I understand, and I'm not disagreeing with you. But why now? Why is this keeping you awake at -" He glanced at the clock. "At three in the morning?"

"I remember that race through the mountains, trying to warn as many villages as we could before the scalp hunters arrived. I remember it like a nightmare, like the hounds of hell were behind us – and they were. Nick, you didn't see what I saw, afterward, when I doubled back toward the north fork to meet up with our supply wagon. I had to ride through all those villages again, after the scalpers had been through. Father knew it would be bad, so he kept you with him, riding down to the valley by the southern route." He looked into the glowing embers of the fireplace, and a tear slid down his cheek. "Oh, it was bad, Nick, as bad as or worse than anything we saw in the war, because these weren't soldiers fighting soldiers. This was the slaughter of children, women, the old, the newborn; they torched food supplies the villages had spent months gathering, and burned their shelters; they wiped out villages that had existed for who knows how many hundreds of years. I still have dreams about it."

"What did you dream about last night, Jarrod, that's had you looking like you've seen a ghost all day? That's what I want to know."

"The first village we came to, right by the Tuolumne. Do you remember Father telling you there was a White boy there, a boy they had found injured in the river?"

Nick frowned in thought, then brightened. "Yes, yes, now that you mention it, I remember – I tried to ask Father about it but he shut me down. And we were riding hard anyway."

"That boy, Nick –" Jarrod was having some trouble now keeping his composure. "I didn't double back just to meet the supply wagon. Father sent me back to look for the boy."

"Didn't the village –"

"No. They left him behind to die, or be killed, or worse. Papati told us he would protect the boy, but most of the village either feared him because he was cursed and wanted him gone, or hated him because he was White, and wanted him dead. As soon as they cleared out of Sutamasina, the men who were charged with bringing the boy along made a different decision."

"Cursed?"

"He was blind, probably from his injuries, but they thought he was cursed. He had a broken leg, a bad head injury, so many cuts and bruises – we couldn't ride with him in that condition."

"No, no, of course not, but…" Nick was looking queasy as he considered the grim scenario. "What happened to him?"

"I found him in the village. It had been destroyed like all the others. There was a Negro woman who I thought at the time was his mother, who told me a little of what had happened – the boy didn't say much. Let's just say the Negro woman got there just in time to keep him and another Indian boy from burning to death in the roundhouse."

"Thank God for that." Nick was watching Jarrod closely, wondering again where this was leading.

"The two Miwok boys made their way back to what was left of their people. I brought our supply wagon into the village and had our driver take the boy and the woman back to their home."

"And..?"

"When I dreamed about it last night, I suddenly could see it all clear as day as I got the two of them settled in the back of the wagon. The woman thanked me, and the boy looked up to thank me as well. His eyes were so blue. As they started to roll up the trail, the woman put her arm around the boy and said, _Your Mama and Rachael gonna be over the moon to have you home, child. Let's sing a going home song. What'll it be?"_

Nick caught his breath, speechless as he stared into his brother's tear-filled eyes. "Dear God, Jarrod. _Heath_?"

"Yes. Heath. He was ten, Nick. Ten years old. And we left him there alone in that apocalyptic hell. We didn't know him and he didn't know us, and he wouldn't tell me anything. Finally it was Hannah who brought him to safety. And hasn't _that_ been the story of his life with the Barkleys? My God, Nick, I know _why_ we left him there – but I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. There's always been, for me, an awful feeling that I failed to do anything to help that anonymous boy, except to get him a wagon ride back to Strawberry. We made a poor calculation, relying on Papati, in the urgency of the moment. But then last night, I _saw_ those eyes, I _heard_ Hannah's voice, I woke up and I knew. And then came all the _what-ifs_. What if Hannah hadn't found him in time? What if Heath had told me who his mother was – would Father have recognized that this was his son? What if Heath had come to us at that age? Only three years later, Nick, that little blonde boy joined the Army. What if, what if, what if."

Nick was near speechless, replaying that terrible ride through the mountains. He had a memory of Jarrod lingering in the roundhouse, and his father shouting impatiently for him to hurry up; Nick remembered feeling smug that _he_ was all mounted and ready, while this time it was Jarrod getting some flack. His brother Heath was right there, _right there_ , and no one knew….Thinking of Heath, though, gave Nick some idea of what might ease Jarrod's mind.

"I think I know what Heath would say."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"First, he'd point out that it was a life-or-death situation, and that you were right to try to save as many lives as possible. Second, he'd have you remember that two years later, he was riding a pony express route from Placerville to Carson City and having the time of his life, and you know that _never_ would have happened under our roof."

"No, you're right about that, Nick," Jarrod agreed, starting to smile.

"And third, he'd point out that if he hadn't enlisted and spent almost eight months in that maggot-infested Reb hotel in New Mexico, he would not have met his captivating and remarkable bride-to-be."

"Nick, I believe you are starting to get to know our little brother. And I thank you. Thank you for listening to me."

"Anytime, Jarrod. Though daytime is better. I wonder if Hannah has already figured this out. She'll probably ask you what took you so long."


	13. Chapter 12 - A Hanging Consequence

**_Jamestown-Sonora Road, November 30, 1874_**

* * *

 _I fear too early, for my mind misgives_  
 _Some consequence yet hanging in the stars_  
 _Shall bitterly begin his fearful date_  
 _With this night's revels, and expire the term_  
 _Of a despisèd life closed in my breast_  
 _By some vile forfeit of untimely death._  
 _But he that hath the steerage of my course,_  
 _Direct my sail._

 _William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet"_ _Act I. Sc. 4. L. 107._

* * *

John waited by the fire, keeping watch and listening for Rivka and Heath to return to the campsite. It was with difficulty that the marshal kept his place and didn't go hunting out toward the road after those two youngsters. He breathed a sigh of relief, then, when footsteps approached, and the two familiar figures could be seen walking side-by-side back toward the camp. They moved to the creek's edge, indistinct in the mist and dim moonlight. Low tones of murmured conversation were all that came to John's ears, but he was glad to hear it.

He admitted to himself that he was relieved that Rivka was now at least aware of these "difficulties" (John was at a loss for a better term) that were hounding Heath. Certainly it wasn't ideal, how that revelation had come about. John suspected she was plenty angry at Heath for concealing both the nature of these episodes and their gradually increasing severity.

John could understand wanting to hide such troubles for fear of burdening (or scaring off) his loved ones. He could understand a man like Heath wanting to try to beat it on his own. Hiding, it seemed, was no longer an option, but Heath apparently needed a stern reminder that his family and fiancée refused to be scared off. Rivka had immediately gone out after him, and John would bet his last penny that she would categorically negate any notion of Heath's that she would bail out in the face of this trouble, no matter how poor the prognosis might be. That was good, John mused, that was as it should be, but he found the thought was not easing his disquiet.

The frustration and shame was plain on Heath's face as he came to himself and retreated from their presence. That reaction was no surprise to John. He could see, too, the effort Heath was making to control the anger shaking him and to push away the fear. These were all difficult but familiar feelings, ones which John could identify and understand. He could figure out how to help, usually. There was something else, though, something that warned him that the field of battle was not yet taken, and that there were dangers beyond his current line of sight. What he saw in Heath's eyes just now was a different kind of fear, though John was coming to realize he'd had glimpses of this all month since he'd come to Stockton. He saw confusion. He saw a man hunted and retreating from an enemy he couldn't see or predict or avoid.

As he always did on first approach to a conflict or confrontation, Marshal Smith took a moment to look over the lay of the land and the hazards he expected to encounter. This moment of reassessment was no exception. This time, though, he found himself missing Victoria - he imagined her warm beside him, and wished he could talk to her about what he'd learned today. _Amazing how my life has changed in just these few short months,_ he thought with a smile. _I'll have to send her a wire as soon as we get to Sonora_. John lit a cigar with a burning twig from the campfire and then leaned back to watch the smoke curl upward, settling into the methodical review of his observations that had long served him well in his career.

Heath's physical recovery would continue to be a challenge, this was clear. John, however, had seen Heath soldier forward through all manner of injuries and illness with practical toughness and usually even a sense of humor. In and of themselves, therefore, Heath's physical injuries were a burden, but they did not threaten despair. John had noticed, though, that the pain and lingering physical limitations could suddenly reverberate with his state of mind, and (in the very real present) become the teeth and claws that could seize him and drag him out of himself. John thought maybe that observation could be useful, though he couldn't clearly say how, yet.

It certainly seemed the more out of control Heath felt mentally, the more his injuries weighed upon him like stigmata: inescapable, it was as if the scars on his body were proof of some incurable malignancy within him, rather than a mark of healing. That way led to despair. Nonetheless, John knew Heath had fought himself away from that dark place before, and it was not insurmountable, especially if he had Rivka and his family at his side. Heath would want to reject the illogic of that doomed mental attitude. He clearly wanted to understand what was happening, wanted to master it and find a way to fight back and move forward. John had faith that Heath would, in the end, accept what help they could offer and fight for himself. But he also knew that Heath was a realistic man with little to no tolerance for false hopes and illusions. And it was with this John felt he was coming closer to the source of his own nagging unease.

Heath, John had come to learn, feared two things above all others, and in roughly equal measure. One of those was losing Rivka. Rivka herself was even now refuting that possibility, and strongly, John was certain. And the other: Heath feared losing the strength and stability of his mind, his ability to trust in himself. Without that, the rest of the dominoes would inevitably fall: his honor; his ability to serve others; his sense of meaning; his future with the woman he loved. This beast, this "difficulty", this _thing_ that kept yanking him away - it threatened all of this.

Watching the couple move quietly from the creek toward their tent, John felt sure Heath and Rivka would work together in the effort to recover both his physical and mental strength. They would come up with a plan of attack. But that was not the end of the battle, John thought, thinking of Caroline. It was only the beginning.

What was it Heath had said? _They don't live very long, one way or another, from what I can see. Is that what I am? Is that where I'm headed?_

Even with courage, even with the best of allies and the best possible plan, John knew, sometimes defeat came nonetheless. He rolled the idea over in his mind, cautiously, reluctantly. _Doctor, isn't there something else you can do?_

* * *

 _Can I go forward when my heart is here?  
_ _Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out._

 _William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet" Act II. Sc. 1. L. 1._

* * *

Heath held back the tent flap for Rivka to enter, then climbed in himself, tying it closed behind him against the frosty night air. Kneeling, she opened a small leather satchel and took out a jar of salve and a soft, worn oilcloth. The salve had an odd, pungent smell. Heath regarded it suspiciously, then looked a question at Rivka.

"Take your shirt off," she ordered, curtly.

"Yes'm," he replied, still watching her face. He hesitated for a moment, then he looked down and began unbuttoning his shirt.

She sighed, still angry but unable to maintain her stern demeanor. "Turn around," she said more gently. He nodded, silently, sitting down on his bedroll and removing his shirt. She moved behind him, biting her lip as tears again threatened. She blinked them back, regaining her businesslike tone. "I know this smells a little strong, but I made it to ease some of the burning you've felt around the scar tissue, and also to loosen some of the stiffness in your muscles. "

"Thanks," he said, not sure if he should say more. He could feel her anger, and right then he thought himself utterly unworthy of her skill and attention. Her gentle touch moved over his back. He closed his eyes as a pleasant chill raised goosebumps on his skin. "What's in it?" he asked after a few moments.

"Turmeric, lavender, cinnamon – and, just to warn you, powdered chili peppers. Your back is going to feel like it's on fire for a little bit, if I mixed this up correctly. That's why I'm rubbing it in with this oilcloth. I don't want this all over my hands." She was sounding a little less furious, and his anxiety eased a bit. "I compounded it with sunflower oil," she continued. "That will help with the places still healing and also ease where the scars have contracted, so you can move more freely. I think that's a big part of the reason everything still hurts so much – like reaching or turning or mounting your horse. If it works we could use it on your knee as well."

He raised his eyebrows – chili peppers? His skin _was_ beginning to feel warm – but he found her touch so pleasant he didn't care if it meant he would go up in flames. He dropped his head to his arms, suddenly exhausted, letting himself drift in the sensation.

"You promised me you would be honest," she said quietly behind him.

"I was afraid," he said, speaking into the darkness.

"Afraid I would leave you? After everything we've been through?"

"No – now that I'm thinking it through – no, not that exactly."

"Then what?" Her hands stopped moving, but neither did they leave him. They rested gently on his shoulders, and he suddenly realized he felt more grateful for that touch, right then, than just about anything he could think of in his whole messy life.

He would honor what she had given him. "I don't know if this'll get better, darlin'," he said, earnestly trying to be as truthful with her - and with himself - as it was humanly possible to be. "I don't know where I'll end up, or whether that's gonna be a place I can live with, if this doesn't get better. I don't want you to suffer because of me." He lifted his head to look at the darkened canvas of the tent wall, brow furrowed. "I don't get it, darlin'. I'm home, I'm safe, more or less, but it keeps getting worse. I don't know why. I don't know what to do about it. It'd almost be easier to deal with, if I'd gone blind, or lost an arm, or something. But this - it's how I _think_ , how I feel - I can't -" He stopped, at a loss for how to explain himself, and then continued on another tack. "So then I convinced myself it would all go away when you came back from San Francisco," he continued ruefully. "I knew better. I put all my chips on that number, and then I just tried to get by. Not that I don't feel worlds better with you beside me, darlin', but the fact is, it was foolish of me and unfair to you, and I couldn't bring myself to tell you just how bad it was."

She took her warm hands away from him then, and he felt bereft. But then she was back, slipping his shirt on and turning him to face her. "Love, I will say again, we don't know what will come tomorrow. I do know this: I would rather walk into hopeless battle by your side than live a long quiet life without you. Do I make myself clear?"

He nodded, smiling slightly. He reached out to run a strand of her hair through his fingers, then pulled her toward him for a long, sweet kiss. His hands slid under her untucked shirt to caress her skin as he drew her down to lay with him.

"Darlin', you're right, my whole back is on fire," he murmured in her ear. He kissed her neck and then returned to her mouth.

"Mmm, that's good," she whispered against his lips. "You're going to need it for what I have planned for you tomorrow. You still have some dues to pay." Her dark eyes smiled into his.

"Is that so." He rolled over to pin her beneath him, thinking he'd like to just stay in this tent with her until New Year's had come and gone. He set about unbuttoning her shirt, carefully, deliberately, with pleasure and thoughtful intent. "Let's see what else we can set on fire in the meantime."

 _Jamestown-Sonora Road, next morning, December 1, 1874_

Audra, John, and Moshe woke to find the campsite orderly and ready to go: the fire was crackling, some breakfast and coffee set close by to keep warm; the horses were fed, watered, groomed and mostly tacked; and one of the tents, at least, was already stowed. There was no sign, however, of Rivka and Heath.

"Where could they be?" Audra wondered.

John finished pulling on his boots and rose to go take a look around. "Can't be too far." He'd barely stepped away toward the road when he heard their voices coming from the other direction.

"You're - you're _kidding_." That was Heath, and he sounded like he could barely get the words out. "Oh, c'mon -"

"I ain't kiddin', cowboy. All the way. C'mon now, pull. Pull!" _That_ was Rivka. The three shared a look - Audra amused, John a little worried, and Moshe puzzled and and curious. They hurried into the oak and pine woods, climbing to the top of a ridge that dropped off sharply to a bend in the creek about twenty feet below.

There they found Heath, sweating like a plow horse in August, hauling on a rope that passed over a sturdy tree branch and disappeared, taut as a bowstring, over the cliff. Rivka was nowhere in sight. He was pulling, it seemed, with everything he had, hand over hand, and gritting his teeth against the pain. He spared the new arrivals only the quickest glance. Whatever he was lifting seemed very heavy, but it was rising, slowly and steadily. Audra ran to the edge to look over.

"Wow," she said. "That looks heavy. How many times have you pulled that thing up, Heath?"

"Don' know -" he grunted, gaining another two inches.

"John, it's a big ol' dead tree!" she called back. "Well, Heath, how much do you think it weighs? And how did you get the rope around it in the first place?" She approached him, looking for all the world like she expected answers. "I bet all the rain we've had is making it especially heavy. Do you think so?"

"Audra -?" was all he could manage, and so he silently appealed for her mercy. She giggled, then touched his nose.

"You can do it, Heath. Pull."

Heath rolled his eyes and pulled again, groaning under his breath. Another two inches. The rope creaked and the deadfall tree began to rise into view, swinging gently about ten feet out from the ridge and ten feet below the oak branch. He held it there, his muscles shaking.

John was scanning the area looking for Rivka, even as he grinned at Audra's teasing of her brother. _Where was she?_

Breathing hard, hopeful, Heath looked up and gasped, "That enough?"

To John's surprise, Rivka's voice came from above them. He spotted her then, perched in the oak tree whose branches reached out over the cliff. She waved cheerily down to them. "Morning John, Audra! Moshe, good morning _, shalom aleicha!_ Did you eat breakfast? _"_

Heath groaned again and shifted his grip on the rope. "Rivka…?"

She shook her head. "All the way, cowboy. All the way."

He managed another few inches, then stopped, shaking his head. He was tapped out. "I don't think I can -"

"Oh, OK, maybe this'll help." Rivka began scooting out along the tree branch to where the rope descended to the deadfall.

"Rivka, what are you doing?" John was very worried now.

Heath, too, was watching her, an inkling of what she was about to do coming into his mind. _Oh, no, she wouldn't, would she? No - no way -_

 _Oh no. She would._ He was already shaking his head at her.

Rivka looked down at the swinging tree, and thought, _I hope I won't regret this. I'll feel really stupid if this goes bad._ Moving quickly before she chickened out, assiduously keeping her gaze averted from the creek bed twenty feet below, Rivka grabbed the rope and slid down to stand on the suspended tree. The added weight tipped the tug-of-war between Heath and the tree decidedly in the tree's favor, and he fought, gasping, to keep his hold on the rope and remain balanced. He spared no breath for words this time, but his eyes on Rivka were shouting a clear message.

 _What the hell are you doing, girl, this is no joke -_

John immediately jumped to help. Rivka emphatically waved him off. "Heath. All the way up. C'mon. I know you won't drop me. But you better get me back up to that branch, and quick."

 _You're crazy. Rivka, you're crazy -_ Heath didn't notice John's aborted move toward him. His eyes were on Rivka. He was completely focused on her - her safety, her brave but insane demonstration of faith in him, her slim body perched out over nothing - and he was focused on what he needed to do to pull her up. It wasn't until much later that he felt any fear.

 _I didn't blank out, that's a good thing._ _But for all the rhyme or reason I can find in this head of mine, seems I just as easily could have_. _And then what?_

But she was right. He couldn't drop her. And so he found what he needed to bring her back up. He reached up as far as he could and hauled the rope toward him, painfully slow at first, but then picking up a rhythm, hand over hand until Rivka could easily pull herself back onto the oak branch. She then gratefully scooted back over solid land and climbed down. She ran over to Heath, who, in accordance with the rules they had established ahead of time, was still waiting, keeping the tree there until she said he could put it down.

She kissed his cheek. "Thanks for the lift, love," she whispered. She glanced down. "Better make sure everyone's feet are clear before you let go of that rope. A very cute cowboy I know taught me that." She lingered by him, deliberately drawing it out, even briefly chatting with John about the weather. Heath played along, but by the time she gave the OK, his eyes were squeezed shut, he was breathing in gasps, and the tree was incrementally exerting its gravitational mandate to rejoin the rain-swollen creek. She made sure the rope was clear, kissed Heath again, and told him to let it go.

The tree crashed into the creek. Heath stumbled back and sat down on the ground with a groan, chest heaving. He didn't have it in him quite yet to go collect the rope, though it disturbed him to see it laying out on the ground. Rivka sat close by him and smiled. He returned the smile and shook his head in amazement, still too winded to talk. He had to admit, though, that salve had helped noticeably overnight.

"Just think how easy jumping on your horse is going to feel after this little exercise," she had said brightly. "Now, that's not to say it won't _hurt_ , (I expect almost everything will hurt after 'this little exercise'), but you will get more limber as we go along…"

A few minutes later all five rose to walk back to camp. As they came back into view of the road, two riders could be seen approaching fast from the direction of Jamestown.

"Lawmen," Heath said. Moshe looked anxious.

"Yep," John agreed. "From the badges it looks like two of Peale's men from Jamestown. Look alive, Deputy."

"Yes, sir." Heath buckled on his sidearm and donned his jacket that bore the badge. Settling his Stetson over his eyes, he looked narrowly at the two young lawmen who rode officiously into their camp, announcing with pride that they had business with Marshal John Smith. Heath stood by John's right arm with no idea what to expect from these two messengers, but he had no doubt Peale was up to something.


	14. Chapter 13 - Rising Winds

_I laugh, to see how your unshaken Cato_

 _Will look aghast, while unforeseen destruction_

 _Pours in upon him thus from every side._

 _So, where our wide Numidian wastes extend,_

 _Sudden th' impetuous hurricanes descend,_

 _Wheel through the air, in circling eddies play,_

 _Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away._

 _The helpless traveller, with wild surprise,_

 _Sees the dry desert all around him rise,_

 _And, smother'd in the dusty whirlwind, dies._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

 ** _Jamestown, California, previous day, 1874_**

Martin Peale approached to lean in the doorway of the cell block and gaze speculatively at its sole current occupant. The man lazily turned his head to look right back at him, his brown eyes almost black in the dim light, his expression amused.

"Rich girl socked you a good one, did she, Sheriff? How come she's not locked up in here now? I was waiting, hoping maybe you'd treat me to a new roommate. Mmm, mm." He closed his eyes, smiling and humming as if imagining eating a delicious meal.

Peale smiled as well, though there was no humor in his eyes. "Yes, she did. Wasn't expecting that, I must admit. Good thing for you she wasn't that close when she put you in your place, don't you agree? You wouldn't be alive to tell about it."

The lazy brown eyes opened again with a flare of anger, quickly suppressed. Peale continued. "I have a few errands and tasks that I'd rather not share with my deputies, things I think are better suited to a man with your experience. I propose a trade. You follow a few simple instructions in my service, and I will direct you to where you can rendezvous with the troublesome rich girl and enjoy her company outside of these walls. Does that appeal to you?"

The dark eyes flared again, though now Peale saw interest and a feral energy. "You'll outfit me?" the prisoner asked. "Ain't got no gear."

"Certainly."

"Then you got a deal."

"Excellent. I need to make some arrangements, attend to some details. This evening, you and I will talk again."

 ** _Jamestown-Sonora Road, December 1, 1874_**

 _The gods, in bounty, work up storms about us,_

 _That give mankind occasion to exert_

 _Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice_

 _Virtues, which shun the day, and lie conceal'd_

 _In the smooth seasons and the calms of life._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

With varying degrees of curiosity and apprehension, the five travelers watched the two deputies pull up their lathered horses on the road, dismount, and approach on foot. Heath appreciated that simple courtesy, and wondered if these two youngsters might not be as rude and bigoted as their boss. It was basic good trail manners not to raise dust or kick up mud in a person's campsite.

The next thing Heath noticed was their eager and apparently genuine deference to Marshal Smith – again, surprising in an emissary from Sheriff Peale. Heath maintained his right-hand-man position, standing slightly behind Smith, watching the two men carefully. They resembled each other, and he suspected they were brothers. They were watching him too, Heath saw, though not with respect or deference. The wary looks they sent his way spoke loudly of their distaste and disapproval of his presence there. Fear of him, and frank hostility, were visible as well, but suppressed, Heath imagined, in order to maintain decorum. Heath wondered what ideas Peale had put in their heads about him. They were clearly busting with pride and were even a bit star-struck at having been sent as messengers to the renowned Marshal; their admiration for his admittedly impressive career was plain. The more senior – and more confident – of the two announced their identity and purpose with what appeared to be a practiced speech.

"Marshal Smith, sir, I am Sean Thomas, Deputy to Sheriff Peale of Jamestown. This is Roman Thomas, also Deputy to Sheriff Peale. It's an honor to meet you, sir. We bring you an urgent message from the Sheriff, sir." They glanced nervously at each other, then stood rigidly at attention, awaiting the Marshal's response.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise and brought a hand up to stroke his chin in a gesture that looked thoughtful, but was intended to cover a smile. He deliberately turned his face away from the deputies and looked to Audra with amusement. She stifled a laugh. She was relieved the two men seemed relatively harmless, and was enjoying the fact that John had included her in the humor of the moment. John regained his professional demeanor quickly, she saw, but he winked at her before he turned with all apparent seriousness back to the visitors.

Audra had noticed immediately the respect and admiration with which the two deputies approached John. While she had had many opportunities to observe Smith in his professional role in Nevada, this was really the first time she glimpsed something of his renown as a marshal across the western states, and the widespread esteem in which he was held. She began to feel a certain proprietary pride in her stepfather.

 _Stepfather?_ She rolled that unfamiliar word around briefly in her mind, trying it out, and was surprised to find she rather liked it. She then put that thought aside, because she had also noticed the very different looks these deputies were directing at her brother, and _that_ was making her hackles rise. She studied Heath, knew he sensed it too, and marveled at his ability to be still and calm and observant.

Smith, too, could see it, and could practically smell Peale's influence on the deputies' attitudes. He turned and walked over to stand in front of them, tall and imposing. His grey eyes studied them for a long moment, while their anxiety visibly rose. Heath felt some sympathy for the two young men. He knew well what it felt like to be under that steely scrutiny. Knowing also it would not serve him well to get lost in those memories, Heath firmly directed his attention back to his task at hand. _Watch. Wait_.

"At ease, gentlemen." The order and the air of command came easily to Smith; Heath could tell by his own gut response to the Marshal when he chose to take the lead. The two deputies relaxed their stance.

For his part, John found himself wondering where these two got the idea that he would expect this kind of rigid military formality. Was that also Peale's influence? The US Marshals had a strict hierarchy and chain of command, certainly, but as an organization they weren't much for marching and decorum and standing in line like toy soldiers. They had far too much wild ground to cover. The service sought individuals who could think and act independently, because "independently" was often the only approach a marshal had available.

"What urgent message?" he asked.

The younger deputy stepped up and produced an envelope from inside his jacket, extending it to Smith. "Sheriff Peale sent us with a letter, sir. We're instructed to wait while you read it, in case you wish to send a reply. Sir."

Nodding, Smith accepted it, then turned and walked away from the deputies as he opened the envelope. All four of his outlandish companions approached to stand close by him, waiting to hear what Peale had sent; to Sean and Roman's amazement, their proximity seemed acceptable, even welcomed by the famed Marshal. It made no sense. They looked at each other in confusion and distress. _Two girls (both dressed like men), a bastard just out of prison, and a Jew? How is that possible? Why? What is the Marshal doing?_

John ignored the two unsettled messengers for the moment and steeled himself to get through Peale's long, and – as he was certain it would be – **_unpleasant_** letter.

 _From: Martin_ _H. Peale, Sheriff_

 _Jamestown_ , _Tuolumne_ _County_ , _California_

 _30 November, 1874_

 _To:_

 _John G. Smith_

 _U.S. Marshal for the 9th Federal District_

 _Honorable Sir,_

 _I am writing this in haste to transmit to you intelligence which may have a direct impact on your safety in your travels. My sincerest apologies for not having this information in hand during the favor of your visit to my office yesterday morning. I have dispatched_ _these two junior deputies as the most expeditious way to bring you and your party up to date on local conditions and circumstances. Several crises and hazards have developed in the vicinity of Sonora which you would do best to avoid, especially given that you are traveling with two ladies, and an assistant who, most would assume, requires your closest_ _supervision._

 _The local Indian situation has flared intermittently but dramatically in recent months in the wake of the defeat of the northern Modoc last year. One expects that such a spasm of violence here in our region is but a last gasp of resistance from these Digger tribes before the nuisance of this race is_ _eliminated completely, however, I have received reports today of intensifying sorties against White people and their properties._

 _To summarize:_

 _A rogue group of Miwok, calling themselves Chakka, have been actively raiding in and around_ _Sonora, hitting ranches and travelers, even ambushing our militias in order to steal horses, food, and supplies, and also liberate Diggers being moved for relocation. They have made several bold attacks in the past two days, and I worry deeply, Marshal, about you traveling as you are without any reliable back up or support on hand._

 _The Chakka, I am told, are practitioners of the Ghost Dance, a pagan apocalyptic Indian cult of which I am sure you have heard. These rogue Miwok spread the practice wherever they have opportunity, with dances and rituals to bring an end to the White Man and raise all their Indian dead back to life to take back what they have rightly lost to the advance of civilization. Their leader leaves a mark of a black tree whenever they strike._

 _In response to this latest burst_ _of insurgence, the US Army has provided troops to accomplish the capture of any Miwok and Yokuts Indians – any who are not indentured or otherwise assigned to a White household or enterprise – and remove them to a temporary holding_ _area outside Sonora, pending their final transfer to a reservation designated for these tribes in the vicinity of La Grange. These Army units are on loan, so to speak, operating under the command of Colonel_ _Harrison Morgan; he answers, however, directly to our Governor, who directs his efforts as he sees best for the welfare of our State._

 _Please understand: The US Marshals have no jurisdiction in_ _the activity of these militias, and no mandate regarding Indian affairs other than the taking of the census. I beg you to give Morgan and his troops a wide berth and do not interfere, especially since you are so new to_ _your post in this state. Colonel Morgan served under General Canby for over ten years, since their defeat of the Confederate rifles in New Mexico. He was devastated by Canby's assassination by the treacherous Modoc last year_. _He is a man who will brook no obstacle to the completion of his mission._

 _The holding camp to the south of Sonora, moreover, is fraught with death and disease. The Diggers are incapable of_ _organizing a subsistence for themselves, though they are left alone to manage however they choose in the camp, just as they have said they prefer. Many are starving, I have heard_. _Just now, influenza is raging everywhere in the country, but in the camp the Indians are dying at a rapid rate, especially the children and the infirm. In addition, it was confirmed to me today that an epidemic of typhus has developed in the_ _camp - arising from their savage and unsanitary way of living no doubt – and this also is causing many deaths. All medical and nursing personnel have been withdrawn from the camp for fear they will spread the diseases to the towns and White homesteads. The people of Sonora are becoming alarmed at this threat to their public health, and have been pressing the Governor to relocate these Diggers away from settled areas as soon as possible – or find some other solution. You can imagine, I'm sure, what solutions have been considered – the rising cost of metals to make bullets has been an incentive for us merely to let nature take her course in this instance._

 _So again, I advise you, give the holding camp a wide berth, as you are traveling with vulnerable companions. The ladies with you, I am sure, would be traumatized by exposure to such destitution_ _and disease; it is far worse than the small outbreaks to which your most charitable new wife and stepdaughter have ministered in and around Stockton._

 _Your Deputy, on the other hand, might find the conditions in the_ _camp a little too familiar for his comfort._

 _In that vein, by the way, not only was Colonel Morgan a great admirer and acquaintance of Tom Barkley when he was alive, it occurred to me that he and your deputy might also know of each other. Morgan was Canby's Judge Advocate officer_ _when they liberated Carterson, though I suppose he could be forgiven for not remembering an undistinguished NCO. I did make a point of letting Morgan know of your assistant's curriculum vitae, so to speak, just in case you do cross paths_.

 _I do hope, though, that you'll heed my advice and avoid the military patrols. I would suggest redirecting your route to the northern approaches to Sonora, conclude your business there quickly, and head back to that lovely mansion of Victoria's_ _as soon as possible. You should enjoy your holiday, though I imagine you still feel like a guest of Mrs. Barkley and the family. Most men wouldn't be able to give up being head of the household, even to a woman as impressive as Mrs_. _Barkley, but you have shown yourself admirably humble and compliant in this. I suppose, though, what choice does one have when confronted with such an economic disparity?_ _What is a man to do in such an odd situation?_

 _I find myself apologizing again, Marshal, because I pose questions and offer no_ _answers. I hope my digression into personal thoughts and observations can be forgiven. I wish you safe travels, and regret I could not give you this information in person. I hope you will honor me again in Jamestown in the near future._

 _With great regard, Marshal, I remain your humble admirer and fellow servant of the law,_

 _Sincerely,_

 _M. H. Peale, Sheriff_


	15. Chapter 14 - The Horsemen Gather

_And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth._

 _Revelation 6:8_

* * *

 _Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power._

 _Abraham Lincoln_

* * *

Marshal Smith sighed and looked at Audra with a sour and apologetic expression. He held out the letter. "I can't read this out loud. Bad enough having the words in my head. Certainly don't want to taste 'em too. You're gonna have to slog through it yourselves." He looked across to the two waiting deputies. "Be right back."

Leaving his companions to read through Peale's letter on their own, John returned to stand thoughtfully in front of Sean and Roman. They watched him nervously.

"So you two want to be lawmen, I take it?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Roman blurted before Sean could answer. "Our Pa, our uncles, they all were lawmen back in Virginia, and our Grandpa too."

"Where's your Pa now?"

Sean answered seriously. "He was injured, about 12 years ago now. Couldn't be Sheriff no more, so he opened up a miner's supply store, and does a little gun-smithing on the side, repairs and such. Just about broke his heart not to be able to serve anymore. But he finds other ways to look out for people."

Smith nodded. He could hear the respect in the boys' voices, and they clearly had taken in an example of commitment and service from their father. Those were valuable things to find in a young man, and he worried for them under the influence of their current boss. Watching them closely, but keeping his tone casual, he said, "How is it working with Sherriff Peale?"

The brothers immediately looked at each other, and neither volunteered to answer the question. Smith had expected the topic to make them anxious. He'd caught the immediate flash of distaste on their faces, followed by a mix of fear and confusion, quickly but inadequately masked. He decided to be direct with them. If they took his advice, all the better; if they decided to throw in with Peale, well, that fate was on them to live through. It wouldn't make Peale any more of an enemy than he already appeared to have become.

"You don't have to answer that," he said, and saw the relief in their eyes. "I'm gonna keep this short, because I've got work to do and some people to find who I think are in trouble.

"I don't like Peale, never have. I think he's a self-serving man, a small-minded and vicious bigot, and a terrible sheriff. I'd be shocked if your father disagreed with me on that." The look on the boys' faces confirmed it for him. He went on. "Until today, though, I never thought of him as truly, criminally dangerous." At this, the deputies' eyes went wide. John made his decision.

"You probably know we are in the process of building up the Marshal Service in these parts, and doing it as fast as we can, because the need is huge. Haste aside, however, I intend for it to be the finest, most professional law enforcement agency this country – or the world – has ever seen. Do you understand what I mean by professional?"

"Trained?" said Roman. "Reliable."

"Committed," added Sean. "Trustworthy. That's what my Pa always says. Trust ** _worthy_**. He always put the emphasis on being **_worthy_**. He said that was more important than the badge or the weapons you carry."

Smith nodded, pleased. "Your Pa sounds like a good man. I'd like to meet him. I'd also like you two to think about signing on with us." This suggestion prompted excited celebration and expressions of gratitude from the deputies, military decorum all but forgotten for the moment. John pulled out a small notebook and pencil from an inner pocket and wrote a short message, handing it to Sean. "You boys get in touch with either Marshal Frank Sawyer in Jubilee, or Marshal Raul Montana in Sonora, and tell them I sent you. They are both top-notch professionals, and you'd do well to learn from them.

"Now, as you probably know - but were too polite to come out and say - Peale does not like me, and he particularly dislikes my companions here. I'll grant you, they are an unusual bunch. If you want to serve the law, though, boys – if you want to be **_trustworthy_** – you're gonna have to learn to see people for who they **_are_** , not for what other people call them. You understand me? These are four of the strongest, smartest, most trustworthy folks you'll ever have the pleasure to meet."

The two young men stared at Heath, and the Jewish man, and the two beautiful but oddly-dressed women, then looked back at Marshal Smith, surprised but clearly trying to take him at his word. He had one last, important piece of advice.

"Peale will tell you that I'm losing my mind, or that I've been bought and paid for by Victoria Barkley to babysit her inappropriate daughter and this unstable, dangerous bastard, to keep them both out of trouble." He smiled at their look of discomfort to hear this spoken aloud. "For your own well-being, I would remind you that Peale is also a very, very jealous man. You both would do well to express agreement with whatever Peale wants you to believe, until you can get out of there and sign on with someone who can teach you something worthwhile. Do you get my meaning?"

"Yes, sir. Understood, sir. Thank you, sir."

The two deputies were nodding anxiously as they took in this information, though John worried still for their ability to dissimulate when they would be confronted with their boss. "Very well," he said. "No message in reply except for my sincere thanks to the Sheriff for the information and his recommendations. Carry on. And be careful."

Sean and Roman saluted and ran to their mounts, riding off at a brisk canter. John turned away, shaking his head and thinking through the ominous feeling he had about their road ahead. As he rejoined the group in the campsite, Heath handed him the document, once again neatly folded. "Boy, howdy, John, after reading that letter I feel like we should check each other for knife holes. Am I bleeding anywhere?"

John smiled grimly. "More than just sniping, do you agree?"

Heath nodded, no joking in his eyes now. "He means to send us into harm's way. Thing is, I don't see how we can avoid it."

"I agree. Harm's way indeed. Peale is far more dangerous than I have seen him to be in the past, and I need to think through what his end game is."

Rivka, Moshe, and Audra had been deep in conversation themselves regarding the letter. In response to Moshe's grave questions, Rivka confirmed to him that yes, this _pogrom_ against the Indians was real and widespread. His eyes filled with tears as he looked back at her. "They have nowhere to run," he said. "Neither did most of my people. Will such crimes ever cease to be…?" Audra was asking about the children, and the disease in the camps, and Rivka told her that Peale's description was likely not far off from the reality.

She turned now to Heath. "I have to go to the camp."

He nodded. He was expecting this as soon as he saw the letter. "I know. I'll go with you." He looked at John and Audra. "You two should continue on into town, find the doctor, and see what you can find out about Peter. Quickly. It's Ilsa you need to track down as soon as possible."

"Wait, what about you two? Won't you need our help in the camp?" For all her desire to find Ilsa and Peter, Audra could not help but see there was a bigger disaster developing in the containment camp.

" ** _No_**." Rivka answered sharply, then softened her tone. "No, not with typhus now epidemic in the camp. That is too dangerous. Influenza kills too, especially the young, old, and starving, but this time of year, you might be just as likely to get it at church. Typhus is deadly. It is a very different threat. It becomes epidemic in circumstances like these – when people are malnourished with no access to food or sanitary conditions; no clean water or space to wash; and when it's crowded, especially in colder weather when people huddle together to stay warm; and everyone infested with lice and fleas. People become feverish, crazed, with terrible headaches and bodyaches. It's awful, and the death toll can be astronomical. It's thought this was the disease that wiped out more than half of Napoleon's Grand Army of 600,000 when he invaded Russia."

"Rivka, you and Heath can't go in there then! What about you?" Audra was horrified by what she was hearing.

Heath and Rivka just looked at each other for a long moment, grave resignation in both their expressions. Finally Heath answered Audra, though he kept his eyes on Rivka. "We can go in there because we've both had it before. We survived it. We shouldn't get it again, or if we do, it would be milder." He didn't notice the slightly shocked look Audra gave Smith, who acknowledged it with a sad nod. _No access to food or clean water - huddling together - everyone infested with lice and fleas…_ Her brother and Rivka had lived through that. The casual cruelty of Peale's comments took her breath away. She also thought she was beginning to see the trap that lay before them.

Heath was remembering helping Hadassah after his own recovery from the spotted fever, when the terrible disease swept through Carterson in mid-winter, killing off twice as many as had the influenza. He'd had a mild case, relatively speaking, and that was awful enough. But the fever had finally reached the Levis, Rivka worst of all. Heath had spent the next several weeks tending to them as much as he possibly could, with the constant threat of losing some or all of the family that had come to mean so much to him. The image still terrified him: Rivka, feverish, weeping from the headaches, fighting to breathe as her lungs filled with fluid.

Peale's expression of hope that these diseases would provide a "solution" to the "Indian problem" were filling him with rage; he was certain this was Peale's intent, despite his apparent effort to warn them away. Peale was quite well-informed, as John had noted. He would know about Rivka's hospital in San Francisco, and he would know that the physicians of the Pacific Dispensary considered it their mission to bring health care to the needy, the poor, the displaced and the immigrant. These Miwok and Yokuts were no exception, and Peale knew – as did Heath – that Rivka would not turn her back on them. Peale knew, further, that Heath would not let her go alone. And so Heath and Rivka would most likely find themselves confined and detained among understandably hostile Indians; they would be quarantined in what amounted to a government-run death camp; and they would be trapped there right in the warpath of Colonel Harrison Morgan.

Colonel Morgan. Reading that name had given Heath a shock. It had been ten years since Carterson, and he'd mostly been able to forget the JAG officer who had been judge, jury, and executioner; the officer who had torn up Heath's three years of military service like so much scrap paper and had thrown it, and him, in the trash heap; the officer who had taken the time and effort to crush him, and to convince General Canby to sign off on the whole thing. _Why?_ Heath had wondered, had screamed in his head for years afterward. _Why?_ He never did come up with an answer. One thing he did know: he had never wanted to lay eyes on Colonel Morgan again. _Looks like I don't get what I want this time around,_ he thought. _Looks like Martin Peale has other plans for us that go way beyond simple meanness. What is he driving at?_


	16. Chapter 15 - No Need to Speculate

_Their cavalry gallops headlong_

 _Their horsemen come from afar._

 _Their hordes advance_

 _Like a desert wind_

 _And gather prisoners like sand._

 _Then they sweep past like the wind and go on -_

 _Guilty people, whose own strength is their God._

 _Habakkuk 1:8_

* * *

 ** _Placerville, California, October, 1861_**

"Alex! Alex, you old hound, come here, I want to introduce you to someone!"

"Tom, who you callin' an old hound?" the tall, slim man turned with a smile, his slow Kentucky drawl a contrast to Tom Barkley's customary bellow and bark. He watched his long-time friend and business associate approach up the dusty street with an easy lope and a brilliant smile. He was dressed for the trail, his hat pushed back to reveal shaggy blond hair and a beard just beginning to gray. He waved up to his friend, the other arm casually thrown around the shoulders of his younger companion.

The two men reached the foot of the steps to the Placerville Pony Express station, where Alex leaned against a post, grinning down at them. "Good to see you, Tom. Change is in the air, once again, and I always say you're a good man to have around when the road starts twistin' and turnin'."

Tom's blue eye twinkled. "Yeah, we've gotten past a few tricky spots, haven't we, Alex? Kept the wheels on the road, one way or another." He turned to the young man next to him, pushing him slightly forward with an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Harrison, my man, I want you to meet Mr. Alexander Major, King of the Santa Fe Trail, Founder of the soon-to-be-defunct Pony Express, the man who I believe near-single-handedly kept the lifelines open between California and the rest of the country, and brought our great state in on the side of the Union." He gestured broadly and dramatically, while Alex shook his head with amusement.

"My friend exaggerates. Young man, if you know Tom at all, you know by now this is what he does, loudly and often, but definitely with flair."

Tom continued. "Alex, let me introduce you to Captain Harrison Morgan of the United States Cavalry, a fine young soldier who just gave me very valuable assistance on an Army contract, the freight for which I expect will be handled by you, yes?" Alex nodded, pleased.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Captain Morgan said, glad to be shaking hands with a man who was a giant west of the Mississippi, a master of overland freight, and truly the King of the Santa Fe Trail. The Pony Express might be ending now with the completion of cross-country telegraph and rail lines. In its brief existence it had become legendary. Alexander Major wasn't finished, however, not by a long shot – he had all kinds of irons in the fire. Captain Morgan was _very_ pleased to be meeting him.

"Now," Tom went on, "I want to find a way to repay the Captain here for his help in closing our deal so advantageously for all concerned. He's just recently been assigned to Colonel Canby, who's in the midst of building up a mounted force to lead against the Rebs in the southwest territories. You, Alex, are in the midst of shutting down your famed Pony Express. Seems to me you've got a large number of young men - some of the best riders in the country - out of a job and looking for work. Might be Harrison here could offer 'em something of interest, no?"

The faces of both men lit up with optimistic speculation, and Tom laughed. If there was one thing he loved, it was when a win-win deal came together, even a deal that wasn't his, strictly speaking. "Harrison, you bring in a string of these young riders – and they're tough as they come, you know that – and I bet your promotion to **_Major_** Harrison Morgan won't be far behind. It'd be a nice way to make a good first impression with Canby, dontcha think?"

"Yes. Yes, it would, Tom." He smiled gratefully at the charismatic rancher/speculator. He blessed his luck that their paths had crossed, and blessed his own instincts for taking advantage of it. One could hardly have a better ally than Tom Barkley in these parts – he could open doors, and introduce an ambitious young man to just about anybody, it seemed to him. And Captain Morgan was nothing if not ambitious. As the three men continued to talk and laugh there came the sound of a horse approaching at steady gallop. Alex pulled out his pocket-watch and chuckled.

"Damned if he isn't going to beat the record – _again_." He called toward the stables. "Danny! Hop to it! Rider arriving!"

"Already?" A stable hand popped his head out of the barn door, then withdrew hurriedly to get his boots on and get outside to receive the horse, shouting all the while to rouse the boy who'd be mounting up and taking the pouch on the next leg. Tom and Harrison watched the routine, entertained.

The rider arrived, pulling up sharply in front of the stable doors and jumping easily out of the saddle. Tom and Harrison had watched as he approached. He'd grinned as Alex called out his record-breaking time; the two men watching found themselves impressed not only by his balance in the saddle, but also by his complete lack of evident fatigue. His horse was lathered but seemed otherwise calm and not at all stressed, which also struck Tom as remarkable at the completion of a speed run from Carson City. The rider took a moment or two to praise the horse and give him a treat and a rub behind the ears, then he turned to head into the office. Alex walked to him. "Nice run, young man!"

"Thank you, sir."

The rider pulled off his hat and pushed a mop of sweaty blond hair off of his forehead, the only evidence he been exerting himself at all. He glanced toward the two men standing with his boss, and Tom caught his breath at the blue eyes that met his for just a moment. He felt like he was looking at his brother Jim. And there was something else familiar – it tugged at him, making his stomach uneasy, but he couldn't get a grip on what it was.

Alex stepped inside with the rider to record his time, check the mail pouch, and give him his pay for the week. Morgan noticed Tom's preoccupation, as the older man's troubled eyes followed the rider. "What's bothering you, Tom?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing, I guess. That rider looked so familiar. Looks like my brother – looks like _me_ , actually, when I was young."

"Are you thinking…?"

Tom chuckled and shook his head, looking suddenly relieved. "No, couldn't be. I've had a few – shall we say – liaisons outside of the marriage bed. Nothing lasting, nothing serious, you understand."

"Of course," Harrison said, sympathetically.

"One went on for a few months. Up in Strawberry. But the timing would be wrong. That was only twelve, thirteen years ago. These riders are older than that."

"Yes, sir, they are that," the Captain concurred, though he knew there were some younger, and that blond kid sure looked like one of those. He suspected Tom was now convincing himself it couldn't be so, judging by the anxiety he sensed in the man.

Tom laughed nervously. "There's never a good time to have skeletons fall out of one's closet, is there, eh, Harrison? Though this would be a particularly bad time. Jarrod – my oldest – is really starting to form political connections in Sacramento and is making a name for himself even before he's done with law school. His reputation could be harmed with any sort of scandal. And I'm travelling so much, I count on my wife to run things at home – a falling out with her would be disastrous all around. Yes, a bastard child would really be a catastrophe at this juncture. Terrible to even think about. This boy's much too old, of course – no need to speculate," he said, relieved at having found a way to put the threat to rest. "Still, he looks so familiar. Wish I knew why."

"Not to worry, sir, I'm sure it will come to you at the least expected time. If you don't mind, sir, I'm going to stay and talk a little further with Alex. I know you need to get back to the stockyard."

Morgan watched as Tom Barkley made his way back to the Placerville stockyard, the look of preoccupied worry returning to his face as soon as he thought he was unobserved. Morgan was observing, however, and closely. _A bastard child could be a catastrophe, Barkley – for both of us. Being associated with you could pretty quickly go from being an asset to a liability._ He turned away when he heard Alex and the boy come back out on the porch.

"I'll be wiring your pay direct up to your Ma, like usual," Alex was saying, "but here's a little bonus so's you have some cash in your pocket."

"Thank you, sir."

"What's your name, son?" the Captain inquired. Seeing him up close, now, with the trail dust washed from his face, Morgan was sure he was no older than thirteen - fourteen at the very most.

"Thomson, sir." He glanced at his boss, then back at the well-groomed young Cavalry officer, and came to the conclusion that the Captain was here to recruit mail riders to join the mounted forces, once the Express shut down and their jobs were gone. Made sense.

"We could use riders like you in the Cavalry," Morgan said, hoping he was striking the right balance of gravity and warmth. "Can you shoot?"

Thomson shrugged. "I hit what I aim at. I don't go hungry on the trail, if that tells you anything."

Alex laughed. "' _I hit what I aim at'._ Lord have mercy, son, there's an understatement if ever I've heard one. I can tell you've got Kentucky roots."

"Why, is he a good shot?" Morgan asked.

"Best I've seen, of my riders, at least."

"Where you from, Thomson?"

"Strawberry." _Ah, there it is,_ Morgan thought. _Perhaps I **can** do something to keep the Barkley star rising untarnished. _

"And how old are you?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"Just to let you know, Captain, this one'll be sixteen for another three years and three months." Alex felt he had to say something. Riding the mail was one thing for a child to do. Riding into war was entirely another.

"Understood. I think, however, I ought to let Mr. Thomson here at least know about what the salary terms are if he chooses to sign on with us. I think I overheard you are supporting a family back in Strawberry? Very responsible. I admire that in a young man."


	17. Chapter 16 - The Thunder Speaks

_I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see._

 _And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer._

 _And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see._

 _And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword._

 _Revelation 6:1-4_

* * *

 _If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat._

 _Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"_

* * *

 ** _Jamestown-Sonora Road, December, 1874_**

Rivka rode beside Moshe in the driver's seat of his wagon, writing with great concentration and periodically raising her head to consult with Heath and Marshal Smith. "Heath, how much cash do you have on you? Moshe is going to be sending several wires and letters, and purchasing some supplies for us. He'll need whatever we can spare."

"Depends on how much we keep back for bribes once we're locked up in there," Heath replied dispassionately. Something in his tone – a kind of gritty, determined resignation – filled John with foreboding, and gave Audra a panicky feeling that the situation was rapidly taking her brother and sister-to-be far out of her reach.

"Best anyway not to bring in any valuables other than some cash that we can hide," Heath went on. "Oughta have plenty to give Moshe to get started, and we can write to the family to send more."

Moshe asked Rivka quietly in Yiddish, "The letter spoke of Mrs. Barkley as 'charitable'. Is she truly? It is so hard to read the truth through the sheriff's convoluted words."

"I think we got Peale's meaning quite clearly, Moshe. And yes, she is a good woman, a righteous woman. She has not ever encountered a hellhole such as I expect is waiting for us, but I have no doubts as to her courage and her willingness to help.

"I've written a message for Moshe to wire to Lotte in San Francisco outlining the situation," Rivka continued, focused back on her notes, "though I don't know what help she'll be able to send. Influenza is rising in the city as well, and I'm sure they're beyond busy." She scowled at her supply list. "Wish I had her input on this, though. She's had so much experience. And we don't know how bad the food and water and sanitation situation is."

John spoke up. "You're plenty experienced yourself, doc. More than anyone your age should be, frankly." He looked at Moshe. "Mr. Schoenberg, it sounds like you're taking on a pretty big job here – supplies and communication. I'll make sure Marshal Montana in Sonora knows who you are, and I think he'll do what he can to help. But are you sure you want to get involved in this?"

He answered in Yiddish, without hesitation. Rivka translated. "It is a form of prayer to care for the sick and the downtrodden. The rabbis have said: cease not to pray even when the knife is laid upon thy neck. I cannot turn away if it is possible for me to help." He added to Audra in English, "I want you to bring the violin back to Peter when – not _if_ – _when_ you find him."

"I'll do that, Moshe, though I think it is best cared for in your hands for now."

"As Nox has been in your hands, Audra," he replied, bowing slightly in her direction with a smile.

John scanned the horizon. "We're coming up on the corridor the soldiers have been using, at least according to Peale. Moshe, I'd suggest you break off to the north and come in to town on your own from that direction. The less attention you draw to yourself, the better – we still don't know all of who is friend or foe in this situation."

Rivka reviewed the message and supplies list with Moshe one more time, as well as several contingency plans to communicate once they entered the camp. She hugged him, then climbed down and remounted Nike.

Their party had split up none too soon, as over the next rise they saw a small contingent of mounted soldiers herding a bedraggled group of roughly twenty Indians along the side of the road. The the sound of one child crying drifted to them over the dusty road. It appeared to be a mixed group of all ages, encompassing two, or possibly three families. Even from a distance, they looked weak; one or another would stumble periodically, and they moved slowly, heads down, shoulders bent. The four travelers picked up their pace in order to overtake the group.

Warning shouts went up between the soldiers as they approached, and the men at the rear turned and raised their weapons in a defensive posture. Marshal Smith hailed them and the rifles were lowered, but the soldiers continued to regard them with wariness - _and a surprising degree of outright hostility_ , Smith admitted to himself. His thoughts went again to Peale – and Colonel Morgan – and the strikingly mercenary demeanor of these soldiers. The awareness of how much he did **_not_** understand about this situation was twisting in his gut like an angry fist.

The four drew up their horses in the road and regarded the soldiers, and the coughing, beleaguered, exhausted group they were guarding. A thick, heavy silence hung in the air. Several of the soldiers shifted and narrowed their eyes, clearly becoming annoyed at the delay. What then followed in the next few moments, even to John's experienced eye, was a rapid-fire, brutal blur of movement, reaction, and violence.

In retrospect, it started with a minor scuffle between two worn out and irritable siblings. There was a complaint, a cough, maybe a shove. Their mother, coughing badly herself, moved to contain them, and stumbled bodily into one of the soldiers. He lashed out with the butt of his rifle, sending her to the ground with a sickening thud of wood on flesh. A young Miwok man threw himself at the soldier with a cry of rage. John heard the woman cry out, her language unintelligible to him but her meaning crystal clear: _Don't fight them. Stop. They'll kill you. Please._ She was calling his name, desperate to pull him back to safety.

 _"Husu! Husu –"_ she cried, her voice hoarse from coughing. Her children huddled by her, as the soldiers turned on the Miwok man with a gleeful vengeance. Before John could even process what had happened, he felt his own mount shoved to the side as Heath spurred Charger forward. The big bay accelerated with stunning speed into the fray, pivoting to interpose himself between the soldiers and the staggering, bleeding Miwok man. Dismounting, Heath ran to catch the man before he hit the ground, and eased him down on his side in the dust.

What came next was no surprise. These men were of a sort who did not like a troublesome Indian, but they held a special hatred for a White man who takes up with the Indian against his own kind. Heath knew what would happen as soon as he told Charger to move. John knew, as did Rivka. Audra, however, sat frozen in shock as she saw the soldiers descend upon her brother with fists and boots, while the Miwok man, for the moment, was forgotten.

 _These are soldiers,_ she thought, the sudden explosion of violence stunning her with a nightmarish feeling of unreality. _Soldiers of the United States Army._ **Our** _soldiers. What are they doing? Why are they doing this?_

Marshal Smith, for his part, was moving forward as soon as he saw Heath dismount. Even so, the soldiers fell upon Heath so quickly that he was lost to John's view in seconds. He heard blows falling, heard the sound of struggle, and then the chilling sound of a slide-action shotgun. Fear and fury pounding in his throat, John rode blindly into the melee, knowing Heath was somewhere in there, down on the ground, and hoping like hell he didn't trample him in his hurry to get to his side. _Scout, I'm countin' on you to watch where you're stepping. Don't stomp on that nice cowboy who's been taking such good care of you._

Scout came through for him, reliable as always, bringing the Marshal right to Heath, and now it was his turn to interpose himself between the soldiers and their target. He saw Heath on his knees, two men restraining his arms, as the junior officer leveled his shotgun at Heath's head. As Smith swung out of his saddle and jumped to the ground he bellowed with all the force of command he could muster.

"LIEU ** _-TENANT!_** STAND. DOWN. **_NOW_**."

The silence was abrupt and profound. The officer lowered his weapon and waved his men back, just now taking in the U.S. Marshal insignia on the two men. The narrow-eyed vigilance remained, but having been brought up short, the officer decided to play out his response as magnanimity, given that he clearly still had the upper hand.

"Marshal." He acknowledged Smith with a short nod. He tipped his head at Heath, who was slowly getting back on his feet. "This hothead belong to you?"

"That he does, Lieutenant," John barked back, stepping between Heath and the officer and moving into the lieutenant's space just as though he himself wasn't in the least bit outnumbered. His voice was laced with annoyed sarcasm and barely-suppressed violence. It was utterly unlike the gentle, thoughtful demeanor his companions had come to know.

Smith made full use of his height now to glare down at the lieutenant. "Damn _**right** _he belongs to me. Best god-damned deputy I've had the privilege to ride with, as a matter of fact, and I don't cotton to you grunts ganging up on him while he's executing his god-damned legally authorized **_orders_** to detain and question that god-damned Indian there who seems to be giving you all so much trouble."

"Detain and question?"

" _ **Yes**_ , Lieutenant. Detain. And. Question. That means I will **_take_ **him with me and I will **_ask_ **him things I want to know. Do you need any additional explanation?"

"No, sir." The officer remained suspicious, but his orders were to round up "free roaming" Indians. Those that were contained – indentured labor, for instance, or under arrest, in this case – were not his job to deal with. He shrugged. "Be my guest."

"Taking his family too," rasped a voice. That was Heath, back on his feet, more or less. He followed John's lead. "Be easier to manage 'im that way." He was still bent over, one hand braced on a knee. He pressed his other arm against his chest as he took a careful breath in, then spat some blood on the ground. Slowly he straightened up the rest of the way and brushed himself off, staring narrowly at the man who had pointed a shotgun at his head not a minute before.

The Lieutenant grunted. "Your mouths to feed, then – _Deputy_." He waved his arm. "Move the rest of 'em out," he ordered, but he kept his eyes on Heath as his men mounted up and got the Indians walking again. Then he strode forward to retrieve his horse, slamming his shoulder into Heath as he passed.

Heath caught his balance, rolling his eyes in annoyance even as John and Rivka hurried over to him. "There's a bully-in-the-schoolyard move, if ever I saw one," he muttered. He turned first to John. "I'm alright. See to Audra, would you? She's – she's looking scared." He held the older man's gaze for a beat until he saw he'd been understood. Wincing, he then turned to look at the Miwok man, who was battered but smiling with relief now that he had his arms around the woman and two small children. He looked up, and his smile vanished as he met Heath's gaze. He seemed to be just that moment realizing that the rest of the group had gone, that his situation had changed. He stared at Heath, jaw tight, eyes burning, clearly ready once again to defend his family.

His face was round, his skin dark, his black hair long and unbound. Linear tattoos ran from his lower lip to the center of his chest. The skin over his lower chest and abdomen, and in patches on his arms and legs, was puckered with the scars of old burns. _He's young to have a family,_ Heath realized. _He's only nineteen or twenty. He's young –_ Heath suddenly felt near tears. This child had saved his life, though **_why_** he had done so, Heath had no idea.

"Husu..?" he said.


	18. Chapter 17 - What I Was Once

_Oh - yet a little while_

 _May I behold in thee what I was once,_

 _My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,_

 _Knowing that Nature never did betray_

 _The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,_

 _Through all the years of this our life, to lead_

 _From joy to joy: for she can so inform_

 _The mind that is within us, so impress_

 _With quietness and beauty, and so feed_

 _With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,_

 _Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,_

 _Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all_

 _The dreary intercourse of daily life,_

 _Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb_

 _Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold_

 _Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon_

 _Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;_

 _And let the misty mountain-winds be free_

 _To blow against thee._

 _William Wordsworth, "Lines"_

 ** _Jamestown-Sonora Road, December, 1874_**

 _OK, John, take a few deep breaths, steady yourself down._ He could still feel the threat and sudden aggression of that confrontation reverberating in his chest, could see it in the slight shaking of his hands. He was as good a man in a crisis as anyone, Smith had no false humility about that, but _damn,_ such hostile show-downs could surely take a lot out of a person.

He had left Heath and Rivka with the Miwok family. The soldiers (who seemed more like a gang of mercenaries in uniform, he thought again) had moved on out of sight, and his focus right now was on Audra. To that end, he tried to shake off as much of the mental debris from that unpleasant encounter as he could, so he could help her do the same.

Audra was staring off as he approached, her face pale and unmoving. She was mounted, but was sitting unusually still, as though she were afraid to disturb the atmosphere around her. Nox seemed to sense this; she was standing quiet but vigilant, ready to defend her unsettled rider if it seemed necessary. John spoke kindly to the mare as he approached, as he had seen Heath do, until he was standing by Audra's stirrup.

Looking up at her, he could see unshed tears standing in her eyes, and realized her stillness was a reflection of the effort she was making to keep her feelings under control.

"Audra," he said quietly. She glanced at him, then went back to staring off at nothing. He took that as permission to continue. "This was a terrible thing you saw here today. These are terrible events that are happening around us, and to hear about it from the perspective of a venal beast such as Peale just makes it that much more horrible."

She spoke softly. "I felt like I was in a bad dream. Ever since that dreadful letter, I've been feeling like there's a whole world of awful danger existing right next to us here in the normal world, hiding just behind a veil – feeling like it's been right there all along but I was never aware of it, but that you, or I, or Heath and Rivka, or those little children, could just be yanked away into that world at any time. I feel like nothing will ever feel safe anymore."

She turned her eyes to him then, a questioning look, and he nodded, understanding. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

A few tears slid down her cheeks. "And then I thought about what Heath and Rivka survived in that prison, and that this kind of awful violence is what Heath has known all his life. How does he keep going? Just _seeing_ those soldiers attack him, I feel like I'll never get that picture out of my mind ever again. How must _he_ feel? Or any of you? _I_ shouldn't be the one upset and scared."

Her hands were tightly gripping the horn of her saddle, and he covered them with one of his own. She looked down at his weathered knuckles. She could feel the warm roughness of his touch, and his genuine compassion. It eased the discordant feeling of **_aloneness_** that had been humming and weaving through her soul all day like a string roughened and out of tune.

John could see her tension slowly ease. "Audra, what you're feeling is normal. It will get better. That veil will move further away, even move out of sight from time to time, and that's as it should be. No one but a saint can live day-to-day with the constant awareness of mortality or suffering – ours or that of others. It leaves its mark on us, especially on someone who cares deeply as you do, and some types of suffering are harder to shake off than others."

"I think that's part of it. Those soldiers – they're supposed to protect us, keep people _safe_."

He nodded, thinking, _the betrayal of trust is a kind of violence all to itself. Audra certainly would have grown up with the expectation she could rely on that protection. Not so her brother, or Rivka and Moshe, and certainly not these Indians._ He decided not to speak that thought, not wanting her to feel more isolated when there was so much that connected them all together.

"It hurts," he said finally. "Ideally it teaches us empathy. If we have to deal with such things often, seems to me, sometimes we get sore spots that pain with any touch or reminder, and sometimes instead we get calluses. The calluses can allow us to do our work better, like a worker with her tools, but they should never make us indifferent. Do you understand what I mean?"

She nodded. He said, "You've been through a lot these past several months, seen a lot of violence and the results of violence, and it makes sense to me that what happened today would hit a lot of sore spots. I think we're all feeling that way."

She smiled down at him, tearful still, but looking relieved. Out of polite habit he reached up to help her dismount, though she had no need of his help. As they began walking back to the others, he felt her studying him, clearly with another question on her mind.

"What is it?" he asked.

She pursed her lips for a moment. "Who **_were_** you, back then, with those men? It was like you were someone different. Not someone I think I'd like."

He laughed gently. "Oh, you wouldn't like him, not at all, I'm pretty near sure of that."

"Well? Who is he? Is that you?"

He stopped and turned to face her, understanding then that he had frightened her on some level, and that her question deserved a serious answer.

"No. No, that's not me. That voiceAudra was a fair imitation of Master Sergeant Penn MacGregor, the bane of my first six weeks in the Army as a gangly, soft-spoken 18-year-old infantryman. He terrified me in basic training, and even popped in to visit me afterward in a nightmare or two. He was a big man, both in size and personality. Wonderful guy to sit down and have a beer and a laugh with, I discovered a few years later. But Lord have mercy, when he was right there in your face, he was a **_very_** scary man. There have been a few times it's been helpful to pull him out of my back pocket." He smiled, remembering, as they started walking again. She laughed suddenly.

"What?" he said, surprised.

"I'm trying to picture it, you having a drink with him. Who invited who?"

He laughed out loud now. "Well, I'll tell you, I didn't invite him. I was out with some friends – I think I was a Second Lieutenant at that point – and a giant hand landed on my shoulder, spun me around and shoved me up against the nearest wall. I heard MacGregor holler at me, **_'SMITH_**. What the **_HELL_** do you think you're doing here?' I was looking up at him speechless – part of me knew he wasn't my COC anymore, but part of me was sure I was in trouble for _something_ and was groping frantically for how to explain myself. Well, he had a good laugh at the look on my face – along with everyone else, and – and you as well, I see," he added, glad to see her laughing.

"I can picture it perfectly," she grinned. "And I'm glad you can put him to good use."

"Well said, Audra, well said."

 ** _Camp Alert, San Francisco, California, February, 1862_**

Heath cleaned and hung up his shovel, then pulled off his sweaty uniform cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He'd been mucking stalls all afternoon, as he had been almost every afternoon since he'd reported here for basic training. Didn't feel very _military_ , exactly – felt more like his job at the livery in Strawberry – but that was just fine with Heath. In fact, he thought, he'd be happy if he could spend the rest of the war just taking care of the horses for the 2nd Regiment California Volunteer Cavalry and sending his pay home to his Mama.

He stopped at the hand pump to get a drink of water, then stuck his whole head under the stream for good measure. His Sergeant had told him he could take a short break before he got started with the evening round of feeding and watering and maintenance tasks. He sat down in the shade with an apple he had saved from mess, pulled a knife out of his boot to cut off a slice, and watched the swallows swoop and dive for flying insects as the evening came on.

He turned the knife in his hands, feeling a twist of guilt and some homesickness. Etched on the hilt in a spidery script were his initials. The knife was a gift from his Mama, and Rachael, and Hannah for his 13th birthday last month, and they had spent an extra two cents to have it etched. His Mama had gotten tearful when she gave it to him, knowing he was going away. She'd tried to argue with him one last time.

 _"Why do you need to sign on with the Army? I know you want to stay away from here, I know you want to go out and work and help us out – but honey, why the military? You're too young – and there's a war – and they could send you anywhere."_

 _"Mama, it'll be fine. It's a good opportunity. The officer who recruited me told Mr. Majors that this 2nd Cavalry is going to stay in California. It was just luck that I was coming in from a run when he was there talking to Majors at the station. I might not have gotten the chance otherwise. The pay is good, and he thinks because of my age I'd mostly be taking care of the horses and equipment, until I got more experience."_

His Mama hadn't been convinced, and neither had Hannah nor Rachael, and that bothered him when he let himself think about it. Heath hadn't seen Captain Morgan since he'd arrived for training, but he'd heard the Captain been promoted and was working closely with Colonel Canby on the southwest offensive against the Rebs. Still, Heath wasn't worried – after the first weeks of basic combat training and skills assessment, he'd been sent off to the stables, just as Morgan had said he would.

Rising to get back to work, he offered his apple core to a grateful cart horse who was just back from a supply run into town. He set to work getting the animal unhitched and unharnessed.

"Private Thomson!"

Heath stood to attention. "Yes, sir."

The young lieutenant looked him over with a slight frown. He'd been given orders to convey to this new recruit, but they made him uneasy. "At ease, Thomson."

"Thank you, sir."

"You've received orders, Thomson. Transfer orders."

Heath looked surprised. "Transfer orders? To where? When?"

"Effective immediately." The officer took a breath and read off the order in a rush, wanting to get it over with. "You are ordered to proceed with all haste to Benton Barracks in St. Louis, Missouri. There you are to report to Captain John Welker for possible assignment to Western Sharpshooters, Company B, presuming Cpt. Welker and Col J. W. Birge find you acceptable and sufficiently skilled."

Heath stood speechless for a few heartbeats, confused. Finally he said, "Missouri? Sharpshooters? Are you sure…?"

The kid's confusion was making the lieutenant increasingly uncomfortable. "Can you read?" he asked abruptly. Heath nodded. "Here. Read it yourself." _I've seen the kid is a good shot with a rifle, and he's strong for his size. But this just ain't **right** , _the lieutenant thought, watching as Thomson read and reread the official orders. _Seems bad enough to bring a kid into this fight even just to run messages or muck stalls. But sending him halfway across the country? And offering him up to a spearhead unit bound for scouting and skirmishing missions? This just ain't right._

"I don't get it," Heath said, frowning. His mouth was dry with foreboding. "Morgan was looking for riders. That's why he was there talking to my boss. Why all of a sudden – I don't get it. St. Louis?" He looked at the paper again, then up at his lieutenant. "I don't have a choice, do I."

"No," the lieutenant answered. "Not unless you want to be court martialed."

Heath dropped his eyes again to the paper. There under the spiky signature of the company commander Captain John Cremony, was the graceful, flourish-filled signature of Major Harrison Morgan.

 _AN: In my original story I had taken some liberties with Canby's various commands and with the Civil War timeline in the southwest. In my fictional universe General Canby's command in 1862 encompassed California and the New Mexico territories, and his offensive against Sibley in New Mexico takes place in 1864-65 rather than in 1861-62. He did in reality later become commander of the Pacific Northwest, and in 1873, he was assassinated during peace talks with the Modoc, who were refusing to move from their California homelands._


	19. Chapter 18 - Ghost Dance

_Into the blithe and breathing air,  
Into the solemn wood,  
Solemn and silent everywhere!  
Nature with folded hands seemed there  
Kneeling at her evening prayer!  
Like one in prayer I stood. _

_"There is a forest where the din  
Of iron branches sounds!  
A mighty river roars between,  
And whosoever looks therein  
Sees the heavens all black with sin,  
Sees not its depths, nor bounds._

 _"Athwart the swinging branches cast,_  
 _Soft rays of sunshine pour;_  
 _Then comes the fearful wintry blast;_  
 _Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast;_  
 _Pallid lips say, 'It is past!_  
 _We can return no more!"_

 _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Prelude"_

* * *

"Husu –?"

The Miwok man ( _He's a boy, still, really_ , Heath thought) stared back at him, though the defensive rage in his eyes flickered and began to fade. It was gradually replaced by a look of confusion - and exhaustion, as the fury and fear that had propelled him into the fight ebbed and left his malnourished body drained. When he saw that they were not to be immediately attacked again, Husu turned back to the woman and children, murmuring to them. He seemed not to have the energy to be curious about the cowboy who had used his name.

Heath had come out of the fight with jolt, the sound of John's voice yanking him back to where his boots – or his face, actually, in this case - were planted on the ground. His decision to jump in had been instantaneous, the moment he saw the woman cry out in pain. He heard her call to Husu even as he asked Charger to leap forward. After that it was a blur of overlapping images, punctuated by the pain of a boot in his ribs and a knee at the back of his neck, pressing his face into the dirt as they restrained his arms. When they pulled him up to his knees, for a flash, it was Bentell's face Heath saw behind the big black eye of the shotgun.

 _It's not him,_ he thought frantically. _I know that's not h -_

 _Move out, Thomson. Get in the lineup, **now**. _

He felt a surge of panic in that instant, more afraid of his fragmented state of mind than of the gun in his face. He had heard John's voice and grabbed onto it like a lifeline.

Now, moments later, he felt a bit like a shipwreck survivor dragging himself up on shore. He looked at Rivka. She had been watching him; when she saw he was back to himself, she nodded reassuringly and indicated she would take care of the woman and the two children. He took a breath or two, tried to shake the rest of the tension out of his hands, and turned back to Husu.

"Husu. You're safe – you're all safe right now. Are you hurt?" Heath knelt beside him, watching his face.

Husu shook his head once, keeping his gaze on the woman and children as Rivka spoke softly to them. "How do you know my name?"

"I heard her call to you, when the soldiers turned on you," Heath answered, "but I know you. I would have recognized you, from the burns on your skin. You saved my life, a long time ago."

Surprised, Husu turned to look at him, as did Rivka and the Miwok woman. The woman glanced at Husu, but then regarded Heath with intensity. When Husu remained speechless, she broke the silence. "Me-weh?" she asked. "You are Me-weh?"

"Yes," Heath said, curious now who this woman was, and how she would know of him.

John and Audra overheard as they arrived. "You are _who_ , Heath?" Audra asked. "Do you know them?"

" _Me-Weh_. Squirrel, I called you," Husu said softly, "because you fell out of the trees."

Rivka saw the old burns and began to put it together. "Is this the little boy Hannah pulled out of the fire with you?" she asked Heath, amazed that their paths had crossed again in this way.

"Yes," Heath said, studying the young man with a look of wonder. "It was a long time ago. Teleli told me you were only four years old. I was ten. I was blind, and sick, and hurt, and scared to death. You were the one who named me Me-weh. You would pat me on the cheek and talk to me, and then hide when the grownups came in – then you saved my life when the scalp hunters came. Four years old, but you hid us both. Do you remember? You were so small."

Husu cracked a little bit of a grin. "Teleli. _Hmph_. That's a big brother for you. I was almost **_five_**. But he still thinks of me as a baby. And from what he told me, you and the brown-skinned woman did as much to save _my_ life as I did to save yours." At the mention of Teleli, the woman made a small, sad sound, and Husu looked apologetic. "This is Hekeke*, Teleli's woman. And these are their children." The smile faded as he looked at them. "I have been trying – trying to take care of them since he has been gone. But we have no home anymore, no place for the children to – to rest, even. To stop. Just to rest, and be children, and grow up."

Instinctively, Audra, John and Rivka had, as a group, moved in protectively around the Miwok family. Rivka had continued to check each of them for injuries, while Audra had hurried to bring them some food and water. John secured the horses, then stood watch behind Heath as he listened somberly to what Husu could tell them.

Husu took in the faces around him. The words of sadness were pressing on him to be spoken now as he met Heath's eyes. "We haven't had a village since that day they burned it down around us, Me-weh. No home. Just running, higher and colder into the mountains until Papati finally gave in to the hunters and led us down to the reservation. It was either that or starve, or freeze, or be killed if we tried to return to our winter grounds. But the reservation – it was – it is – a prison. We were starving there too. They taught us English, and told us to learn to farm, but they had fenced us off on land with weak soil and no good water, and we were always sick. Some of us could work for slave wages, or try to trade for a few staples. Off the reservation we were never safe. White men would kill us, steal our women and children. But inside - Me-weh, we were dying there too, always dying."

 _Nothing here worth saving. Torch it._

Listening, remembering, echoes of smoke and fire and helpless fear moved through Heath, and for a moment it seemed a flashing darkness swept over his vision. He frowned, rubbing his eyes. With an effort, he focused on Rivka, now cleaning a scrape on the woman's arm; on John, standing steady just behind him; and on Audra, speaking gently to the little ones as she gave them cider and pieces of cheese and dried fruit. The feeling passed. Relieved, he asked, "What happened, Husu? After Teleli took you back to meet up with your village? And is he still alive?"

"My father, uncles, and our older brother – they chose to fight. They were the ones that wanted to throw you back in the river; they left you behind to be killed when we fled the scalp hunters. They didn't agree with Papati's protection of you, and when he surrendered, they refused to go to the reservation.

"Our father had learned the Ghost Dance from the Paiute people many years before, had danced it with their shaman and brought the Dance over the mountains to our people. He said that now was the time to bring it back. He felt the end of the world was coming. He and his men left us and disappeared into the mountains to fight the White men and dance the Ghost Dance. They believed the Dance would raise up from the dead all of the ones we have lost, and restore us to the land that has always cared for us.

"Some believe the Dance will bring the end of the White men, will defeat them and wash them away. Most, though, of our people, dance the Ghost Dance believing it will bring peace between all the people and the earth. Peace and – and - _balance_. Balance. Is that the right word?"

"I think so," Rivka said.

"Our father chose to fight. He told Teleli to stay with me, stay with the village. My father and uncles and our brother, over the years, they fought, they raided, they danced, and one by one they all were killed. Teleli stayed with me as long as he could. He fought, also – but on the reservation. He couldn't help himself. He would fight the government men who would steal and sell off the few supplies that were sent to us, he would fight the men who attacked our women. He was beaten, again and again, and then they threw him in prison for a while – but he couldn't stop fighting. Finally, about two years ago, they were going to hang him, and he ran away. I promised I would look after Hekeke and the little ones. We stayed on the reservation, until finally, over the summer, it got so bad a group of us decided to slip away and take our chances in the upcountry. We thought maybe we could at least get some strength back before the winter came again.

"Teleli came to us a few times then, up in the hills. He is mad, Me-weh, he is crazed – he has a small group that follow him. They call themselves _chakka**_ because they feel they are the keepers of our people's strength until the next harvest comes. They raid, and they dance the Ghost Dance. Teleli is mad, but he still dances for peace, I believe this. Not all of his men dance for peace."

"Teleli," Heath said to himself, thoughtfully, then looked up at his companions. " _Teleli_. Black Oak. He is the one who leaves a mark of a black tree."

Husu nodded. "They would come through our camp over the summer, he and his men. They paint themselves like ghosts, and some of them drink Datura to have visions. They tell wild stories about a Woman Spirit they have seen in the mountains. They call her _Osa Wakalali,_ Crying Woman. She is with child, they say, and Teleli believes she carries the good spirit of the White people, that she is the last hope of the White people to find peace and balance. He sings and dances and protects her, but there are those who believe she must be killed, and that the birth of her child will bring defeat. Most of us don't think the Woman Spirit is real – but Teleli says she is. He says he hides her, to keep her safe. But he is crazy."

* * *

* Quail

** A granary used to store harvested acorns


	20. Chapter 19 - Remnant

_That a war of extermination will continue to be waged between the races, until the Indian race becomes extinct, must be expected. While we cannot anticipate this result but with painful regret, the inevitable destiny of the race is beyond the power or wisdom of man to avert._

 _California Governor Peter H. Burnett, January 7, 1851_

* * *

 _Accounts are daily coming in from the counties on the Coast Range, of sickening atrocities and wholesale slaughters of great numbers of defenseless Indians in that region of country. Within the last four months, more Indians have been killed by our people than during the century of Spanish and Mexican domination…We are unwilling to attempt to dignify, by the term "war" as slaughter of beings, who at least possess human form, and who make no resistance, and make no attacks, either on the person or residence of the citizen… [It is recommended] that the California Legislature pass a law for the better protection of the Indians of California._

 _Majority Report, California Legislature Joint Special Committee on the Mendocino Indian War, 1860_

* * *

 _…any person desirous of obtaining any Indian or Indians, whether children or grown persons that may be held as prisoners of war, or at the instance and request of any person desirous of obtaining any vagrant Indian or Indians as have no settled habitation or means of livelihood, and have not placed themselves under the protection of any white person, to bind and put out such Indians as apprentices to trades husbandry or other employments as shall to them appear proper…such Indentures shall authorize such person to have the care custody control and earnings of such Indian or Indians…_

 _Act for the Government and Protection of Indians, California Legislature, enacted March 1860_

* * *

 ** _West of Sonora, California, December 1874_**

The day was growing cool and blustery when John Smith pulled himself up in the saddle and turned Scout's head to the southeast, following the trail of the Army patrol and their captives. It was an easy track to follow, even with the foggy rain that soon came sweeping in from the west. The damp wind whispered echoes of the distant ocean in John's ear, and he imagined he could smell salt in the air. Water dripped from the brim of his hat. He kept his eyes on the ground, tracing the shapes of the prisoners' passage, learning what their feet could tell him. _Here is a man, probably tall, who limps, favoring his right foot; here is a woman, who staggers and weaves from time to time. A piece of her clothing or a basket strap drags behind her. Two children stay close to her always, and to each other; they are probably holding hands._

He didn't _need_ to notice or remember these details, really, but he couldn't help it. It was just what he did, tracking: he saw a person in the outlines of each struggling footprint; he looked for stories drawn in the fading marks of their passage. The story of this ragged bunch – the last few remnants of an entire people - was a sad coda to a tragedy of such a scale John felt he couldn't fully compass it, those times when he could bring himself to think deeply about it. _These footprints, these families, are like the rocks and trees scattered and stranded by a roaring flash flood; we have crushed them in our mindless, soulless rush to the ocean._

He blinked the water from his eyes and told himself to focus. His purpose right now was to scout ahead for their current distance to the internment camp, so Heath and Rivka could plan their approach. Thinking ahead – another habit of his - John aimed also to get an idea of the size, level of security, troop strength, and command presence at the camp. More specifically, he wanted to know if Colonel Morgan had arrived.

 ** _Yet_**. As he crested another small rise, John had his first hazy view of the camp, and he admitted to himself that yes, he fully expected Morgan to enter directly into this conflict. And it was surely a conflict - that twisting feeling of worry in his gut was coiled tight as an angry rattlesnake. He felt no closer to understanding all the forces that were lining up on either side, but he had no doubt battle lines were forming, and he knew he and his companions were going to need some help. Peale had thought it important to let Morgan know **_who_** it was that intended to interfere with his "solution" to the "Indian problem". _Why_? John couldn't shake the feeling that there was something Peale hoped to gain by orchestrating this very dangerous confrontation – something more than just entertainment or petty revenge.

Smith kept his distance from the camp, circling it slowly, taking in as much detail as he could in the drifting fog and drizzle. It appeared to be an old abandoned farmstead, small, about 160 acres of poor-looking soil marked off with low fieldstone lines, and no visible source of water. The original farmhouse appeared largely collapsed, but a few outbuildings and a small barn were still standing. The area around the farmhouse, roughly 5 acres worth, was boxed in by a 7-foot-high barrier. This included stretches both of stockade and barbed wire fencing, the latter being close-strung and clearly intended for the containment of human beings, not cattle or horses.

Of the human beings being contained, he could make out little detail. His best guess was that they numbered about 250 souls, many of whom were huddled together and largely motionless. Here and there he saw individuals foraging wood from the collapsed farmhouse, or trying to construct some shelter to protect the small, the frail and the sick from the increasingly cold, wet, weather. He could identify several bodies he felt fairly sure were dead, or nearly so. Silence hovered over the camp as though grieving itself had been forbidden.

 _Your Deputy, on the other hand, might find the conditions in the camp a little too familiar for his comfort._

The pure, sudden rage that accompanied the memory of Peale's words literally stopped John in his tracks. He gasped as if he'd been struck. He stared at the ground for a moment to collect himself, hands gripping the horn of his saddle. Scout looked curiously back at him, then took the opportunity to nibble at some scrub on the ground.

 _Steady,_ John told himself. _This is exactly why he says such things. It's no different than if he swung a punch at me. Can't let it throw me off balance._

Taking a deep breath, he resumed his survey. Around the outside of the fence, three mounted soldiers rode languidly on patrol, rifles resting on their thighs.

Movement caught John's eye, and one of the bodies he'd thought deceased stirred, curled up, and then seemed to howl in pain. A few shapes broke from one of the huddles and moved with difficulty to the now-agitated Indian. She thrashed and pulled away. He could see now she was a woman, emaciated, wrapped in a filthy cloak and skirt. Staggering to her feet she ran for the fence and flung herself upon the barbed wire as if somehow the relief of her agony could be found in the stony gray space beyond. She began to climb, heedless of the lacerating wire. John began to feel queasy as two of the patrols calmly wheeled their horses to converge on the woman at a leisurely jog. Helpless to intervene, he thought their nonchalance alone was enough to give him a lifetime of nightmares. The wind carried her sobs to him in fragments. He forced himself to watch, feeling in his bones it was the least he could do for her. He saw the two muzzle flashes, saw the smoke, watched her fall. He flinched as the report of the rifles reached him a second later, feeling for a moment unable to draw in another breath.

The soldiers did nothing more. They exchanged a few words and returned to their rounds. Wailing arose from the huddled group, and several stumbled to the fallen woman's side. She became lost to John's view.

Confronted by this massive, faceless tragedy, Smith suddenly thought of Peter and Ilsa, their lives and brand new family shattered. He had set out from home with Audra, Heath and Rivka with the aim of finding those two, if they could be found, and righting something of the terrible wrong that had been done to them. It was becoming harder to keep that aim in sight, when it felt as though all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were thundering down to meet them upon this gray, wire-wrapped field of battle.

John did believe, though, that a looming apocalypse did not make those two Dutch kids any less important. He found himself remembering Rivka quoting an ancient rabbi. _And whosoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world._ They would have to find a way. That search might well lead them directly into a confrontation with hostile Indians, not to mention hostile December weather in the high country. They were spread thin, massively outnumbered, and they most definitely needed some help - but they would just have to find a way.

The small group continued to huddle around the dead Miwok woman. John wondered what her name was. After another moment, he straightened up, his face grim, and kneed his horse into motion to finish his look around and get back to his people.

The Army encampment was a good hundred yards off, upwind and uphill of the camp. There, John could see, hear, and smell signs of life; cook-fire smoke, a few shouted orders or loud conversation, the odors of horses and tobacco and dinner. Looked to be not a full regiment encamped here, only a company or two, which wasn't surprising – John estimated 60 or 70 men at first glance. Room for plenty more, though. Colonel Morgan had roughly 400 men under his command in California. It was a big state to cover, and the Indians he hunted were increasingly scattered in remote or inhospitable areas. If Colonel Morgan came, as he most likely would, John was certain the number of soldiers would increase substantially.

It occurred to John, as he began to guide Scout back toward where he had left his companions: Men like Colonel Morgan had made quite a good living for themselves, both before the war and in the years since, conducting this campaign of extermination against the Indians. The federal government had been liberal and none too discriminating in their reimbursement of "citizen's militias" and other military and paramilitary units for their expeditionary expenses. There had been little moral outcry, except for the spasms of calls for "protection", when the atrocities would rise to such a level that the politicians began to feel discomfort. Even then, the legislation enacted to shelter the Indian from extinction truly amounted to little more than codified slavery - and another source of income for the hunters. Post-Emancipation adjustments to the laws had curtailed some of the outright kidnapping and trafficking of Indians, John considered, but truly not much else had changed.

Millions of government dollars had come into the State of California since 1850, flowing into the hands of men like Morgan, with only faint demands for financial accountability – until last year. The Modoc War was costly, far more costly than a peaceful solution would have been, and in the aftermath, finger-pointing and debate dragged on between Sacramento and Washington as to who would pick up the $400,000 bill. There had been failures of communication and failures of leadership. Opportunities were lost, until finally 90 people were dead, including a General, a Reverend, and Captain Jack, the leader of the Modoc band. He was hanged alongside three of his men for the murder of General Canby and Reverend Thomas, having allegedly shot them both in a surprise attack while the men met in a tent for peace talks. The remainder of Captain Jack's people, women and children included, were sent as prisoners of war to Oklahoma. Despite the ongoing argument over who would foot the bill, government peace efforts fell by the wayside, and there was a surge of public support for armed suppression of the Indians.

 _That was just last year,_ _John mused. Morgan was "devastated" by the death of his General, according to Sheriff Peale. Yet look at the benefits he reaped: support and funding for the suppression of the Indians continued; a charismatic native leader was eliminated under a cloud of condemnation; and a glorious, shining vacancy now exists in Morgan's chain of command._

It was true, the government monies for suppression would soon dry to a relative trickle, but there would continue to be profit in the brokering of Indian labor and of government-funded provisioning and administration of reservation-bound natives. In that vein, the Colonel remained in an excellent position to lay the groundwork for ongoing prosperity as a civilian.

 _One could almost imagine Morgan had orchestrated such an outcome._

John digested this thought, absently running his hand down Scout's rain-damp neck as the camp was lost to view behind him. Then he nodded to himself. Jaw set, he sat back in the saddle and nudged the horse into a canter, feeling an urgency now to rejoin the young group under his care and consider their path forward.

 _One could almost imagine Morgan had orchestrated such an outcome..._

 _Yes, one could imagine quite well, in fact. And Heath is right: Peale is like a buzzing housefly. The Sheriff has an unerring sense of where his next best carrion meal will be, and he seems inordinately interested in Colonel Morgan._


	21. Chapter 20 - Seasons Such as These

_Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,_

 _That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,_

 _How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,_

 _Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you_

 _From seasons such as these? O! I have ta'en_

 _Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp;_

 _Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,_

 _That thou mayst…_

 _Show the heavens more just._

 _William Shakespeare, "King Lear" Act 3 Sc. 4_

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, afternoon, December 1, 1874_**

"Silas!" Victoria came rushing out the front door, all but hidden behind the pile of blankets she carried in her arms. "Silas, it just occurred to me we may have more old linens and blankets in the loft of the bunk house."

Silas hurried to take the load from her arms. "Here, let me take that, Mis' Barkley, I don't want you to trip. You can't see where you're going!" He transferred the pile to the back of the wagon they were loading with supplies. "I had the same thought. I was just over to the bunk house and found a whole stack. Couple of the men are carrying them over. We've also got them gathering up other necessaries. Rope, buckets, shovels, hammers and nails, as many tarpaulins as we can find –"

"We? Who's we?"

"Why, Hannah, of course. She's got McCall and a few of the hands jumpin' over there." He turned back to the wagon, an amused grin on his face. "We thought it best for her to handle that and let _me_ get the foodstuffs together."

"I see," said Victoria, nodding. "She has her kitchen and you have yours, is that it? I do have to say, when you and Hannah cook up things together – like that meal with the seafood stew you two made yesterday – you do remarkable things. While you're at it, though, it sounds at times like a full-fledged range war is about to break out."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes laughing. "She can be bossy. And so can I." He turned back to face her, dusting his hands. "We got a lot to get ready still, and I know my pantry. She seems to have a knack for wrangling those men – years of practice with Heath, I guess."

Victoria suppressed the urge to go out to the barn, as she would greatly enjoy watching Hannah commanding McCall and the hands. They did have a lot to get ready still. As soon as Victoria had received the telegram from Sonora she had sent a rider out to retrieve Nick from Cherokee Creek, where he was still supervising fence repairs, and she expected him to arrive any minute. Jarrod had been with her drinking his morning coffee when the messenger arrived, and after a brief but intense mother-son discussion to decide on a strategy, he had saddled up and headed out at speed to Stockton to send out a series of urgent telegrams and requests. That task completed, his next stop would be Dr. Merar, to solicit any medical supplies – or advice - he could spare. She expected Jarrod would wait in town to receive replies and then return home. They wouldn't have everything ready before dark, so she planned for all of them to have a good meal and a night's rest, and she'd head out with her sons before dawn tomorrow.

Two of the hands appeared, one with a large stack of blankets, and the other with several shovels and pickaxes.

"Ma'am, Silas, um, Hannah said for us to stay here and help move the heavy foodstuffs, y'know, cornmeal, beans, potatoes – she said Silas would tell us what to do."

"That's exactly right," Silas said, all business now. "Follow me."

As the two men headed for the back of the house, Victoria had a thought and called after them. "Silas! Cheese! Don't we have some big wheels of cheese we can bring?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'll get 'em –" came the reply.

Satisfied on that front, she turned to continue her own preparations, already deep in thought as she went back into the house. She pulled out the telegram to read it through again.

 _TROUBLE. JUST SW OF SONORA. INDIAN PRISON CAMP. FAMILIES NO FOOD WATER SHELTER. DEATH TOLL RISING. FLU TYPHUS. DOC GOING INTO CAMP. H WITH HER. ARMY AND SHERIFF HOSTILE. COL MORGAN PROB EN ROUTE. LOCAL MARSHALS ALLIES. HAVE NEWS OF P AND I BUT STANDING BY FOR ANY SUPPORT AND SUPPLIES YOU CAN MUSTER. WE ARE ALL WELL. ALL MY LOVE. J_

 _All my love. J._ She touched the words gently with a fingertip, missing him, marveling briefly over the vast new inner frontier those few letters represented. _We are all well._ She wondered how Audra was doing, and she felt an overpowering need to get to where they were as soon as possible. Love, worry, pride, and a certain eager combative anticipation moved through her. _Colonel Morgan._ She remembered him. She couldn't get on the trail soon enough to ease the sense of urgency she felt.

* * *

 _I know that there are angry spirits_

 _And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason,_

 _Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out_

 _Muffled to whisper curses to the night…_

 _Lord Byron, "Marino Faliero"_

* * *

 _ **Benicia Barracks, Benicia, California, December 1, 1874**_

"Lieutenant."

"Sir!"

"Take our guest, please, and show him where he can wash up and bunk for the night. He may take his meals in the mess with your men. He has, otherwise, his instructions from me to attend to; bring him back to me in the morning immediately after you complete your dawn inspection and review. "

"Yes, sir. This way, sir, if you'll follow me." The immaculate junior officer escorted the malodorous, disreputable-looking visitor out of Colonel Morgan's presence without a hint of distaste or curiosity in his expression. Such self-control was one of the reasons Lieutenant Ross had risen quickly into the Colonel's circle of assistants.

Morgan remained standing until they were well away, then he paced to a comfortable armchair positioned near the window, tucking the thick letter from Martin Peale into an inner pocket. He sank into the chair gracefully and gazed out at the view it afforded of the ocean, sparkling in the distance. He was a handsome man, clean-shaven, and still slim and athletic at the age of 40. His dark hair was short and combed neatly with no hint yet of gray. His eyes, too, were dark; alert and intelligent, they focused thoughtfully on the hazy blue horizon as he considered the information he had just received.

His regular reports indicated the Indian round-up in Tuolumne County was proceeding well and on schedule. The Miwok, as a rule, rarely presented a military challenge. The difficulty always lay in how best to _find_ them in the mountainous terrain and flush them out. True, this rogue band operating near Sonora had been causing some pain here and there, but Morgan had not yet felt it necessary to go there in person, preferring to attend to more profitable business and political relationships in Sacramento and San Francisco. Peale's letter, however, had drawn his attention to a developing situation in Sonora that offered some very interesting opportunities. It had been Morgan's experience over his career that much was lost in men's efforts to set aside conflict. He sought, rather, to seize conflict, welcome it, nurture it if necessary, and turn it to his advantage. It was, he felt, his greatest strength; it was his life's study, his art.

He rang for his secretary. As the young man entered, he began dictating orders and communiques to be sent out immediately. He and a full company of his men would mobilize for Sonora first thing in the morning.


	22. Chapter 21 - Rain and Indians

_Famine is in thy cheeks,_

 _Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,_

 _Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back;_

 _The world is not thy friend nor the world's law:_

 _The world affords no law to make thee rich;_

 _Then be not poor, but break it, and take this._

 _William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet" Act 5 Sc. 1_

* * *

 ** _Jamestown-Sonora Road, December 1, 1874_**

They hadn't moved on from the point where they had encountered the Army patrol. Husu, Hekeke and the children all needed some first aid, not to mention food, water, and rest. Their group of three families had been apprehended by the Army patrol up on Cedar Ridge. Most of them were sick and all of them were hungry, and they'd endured a 13-mile forced march to Sonora over rough terrain. Husu and Hekeke, once they recovered a bit, kept staring north and east toward the path the rest of their group had taken to the camp, the path on which the Marshal had ridden out of sight only an hour ago. No one offered false reassurances that the Miwok families would be fine. They would arrive exhausted and vulnerable to a place that offered only more virulent disease, and no respite.

As the two children fell asleep with the first full bellies they'd had in months, Husu and Hekeke had listened to the tale of the horse and the missing couple. Even in the midst of their own catastrophe, Audra marveled at the sympathy that showed in their faces as they considered the fear and grief of the two lost ones whose life and family had been so abruptly torn apart. She watched them wonder and even laugh in amazement at the possibility that Ilsa might be the Spirit Woman they had heard about from the Chakka men.

When the rain blew in, Rivka and Heath quickly staked up one of the bigger tents to keep everyone dry. Audra continued talking with Hekeke and Husu, learning a few Miwok words and laughing as they explained to her how to play one of their dice games. The rain beat down on the tent roof. The wind gusted, and Heath found himself acutely, painfully aware of the heavy canvas that moved and breathed around them. The falling water lifted the smell of pine and acorn from the ground, and he felt for a moment that it was he that moved and floated, while everything else remained still. The Miwok were murmuring in their own language, and then the wind spoke, crystal sharp in his ear.

 _Why do you have a White child here in your village?_

Heath startled, looking around. Everything seemed to be moving, slowly moving. He felt seasick. He closed his eyes tightly, and heard the rain answer. _My people fear the curse on him. They think he should die._

Eyes still closed, he rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands, swallowing back the nausea. He had a strong desire to step outside and clear his head. Hard on the heels of that idea came the thought that the last time he used _that_ strategy, he'd become completely unmoored and woke up _nowhere_ four hours later. He felt trapped. He made a faint noise of frustration between clenched teeth as panic started to take up all the room in his chest he normally used for breathing. The wind and the rain hissed and moved around the tent, shaping sounds into words and whispering in his ear.

 _We can't take him with us._

 _You're probably right, Father._

 _We have to keep moving. Go get your brother._

 _Where're you from? I'm traveling on business with my father._

He felt a hand on his arm and jumped. He opened his eyes carefully, focusing deliberately on the hand, and not the tent around them. Cautiously then, he looked up and met Rivka's serious gaze. _You want me to act like you're fine._ "Before you ask, no, I'm not fine," he said softly, his mouth dry as cotton. "In fact, this tent is making me buggy, and the weather seems to be talking."

She nodded, watching him. "What is it? Is it because of the rain, and the Indians?"

"Yeah." He gave a short laugh. "So I'd better get a grip on myself then, 'cause we're going to have plenty of both pretty soon, darlin'." He was noticing that just the act of saying it aloud to her - and her calm acceptance of it - was helping him feel more anchored in place. Less crazy, maybe. Definitely less seasick. He took a deep breath. _Got a job to do. Figure it out._ "How 'bout we sit over here by the tent flap and talk. Rather be able to see outside."

He badly wanted to focus on the task ahead of them, because now another familiar refrain was beginning its steady drumbeat in the background.

 _How are you going to keep her safe? How are you going to keep her safe?_

He started to turn away, but she stopped him with a hand on his cheek. "Heath." He met her eyes, reluctantly, and was surprised not to see worry, or fear, or even doctorly concern there. On the contrary, she was smiling. "I know you won't drop me."

* * *

The children were awake and having more to eat when they heard John returning from his reconnaissance. Audra had helped Hekeke with the children's care and they were teaching her a guessing game using marked sticks hidden in the hands. Kneeling by the entry of the tent, Heath and Rivka were conferring quietly together over dirt maps they drew on the ground between them, their heads close together. Audra was intrigued by how they talked together. Sometimes they would debate and discuss in detail, but sometimes they seemed to understand each other with so few words it was as though they were communicating by code. As John rode up to the tent and tended to his horse outside, Audra and Heath were listening as Rivka laid out priorities for setting up what would amount to a field hospital from scratch.

Heath nodded understanding. "I hope John's coming back with some good news. Water and shelter are at the top of the list so you can get started doing what you do, doc. Next order of business I expect is going to be me digging ditches."

Rivka nodded, agreeing. "We're going in there with almost nothing – we sure didn't come equipped for this."

"Digging ditches? Why -?" Audra was puzzled.

"Gonna need a latrine," Heath said matter-of-factly, "downhill and as far from the water and shelter as possible. One way at least to keep more diseases from starting up." He looked at the Miwok family, some worry in his eyes. "Husu, what can you tell me about who they have locked up in there? Will they let us help? Or are they going to fight us? It's going to be bad enough without having to battle inside the fence as well as out."

"Hard to say," Husu answered earnestly. "There are some who want to fight, but most of the men who only want to fight and kill White people have gone into the hills to be raiders. The ones in the camp may not be friendly, and of course you should be careful, but most will be like us, families too sick and too tired to stay ahead of the patrols any longer."

John stepped into the tent. "That fits what I saw," he said gravely. "The folks I could see inside the fence were looking none too lively. Here, gimme that stick, I'll show you –" He gave them as thorough a description as he could, sketching it out in the dirt, softening his description of the woman's death as much as he could to spare his listeners.

Heath took it in, frowning. "No water? It's amazing anyone in there's alive at all." He stared at the map. "It's an old farmstead. There must have been a well nearby. Why would you build a house – **_how_** could you build a house – if there's no water?"

"Unless there was a well, and it failed."

"Maybe…" Heath mulled that over. One thing was clear, they couldn't wait any longer. If there was any chance they could help those families, they had to go now.

John couldn't disagree. "It's not much of a ride from here," he said. "A bit up and down, but probably less than two miles as the crow flies."

"We can ride to get a little closer, John, but I'm sending the horses and weapons with you and Audra. Rivka and I will go the rest of the way on foot. I thought at first we'd bring Tumbleweed along to carry some supplies, but Rivka and I can carry most of it a short distance. Hoping we'll be able to hang onto it, a shovel at least" he said, his expression grim, "but this is a mercenary bunch. I'm expecting they'll take most of it from us."

* * *

Less than an hour later, John, Audra, Husu and his family watched from a hilltop as Heath and Rivka walked up to the gate of the camp. Heath was unarmed, and Rivka had put on a warm wool dress over top of her riding clothes, on order to appear less alarming to the soldiers. Their approach on foot had been observed, of course. They were received by a squad of two mounted officers and five foot soldiers, rifles ready. They were ordered to place everything they carried in a pile to be inspected. Then they themselves, at gunpoint, were searched.

At this point, after all that, it appeared that they were to be refused entry. Rivka could be seen talking to one of the officers, trying to press her point. Heath, unmoving, nevertheless seemed taut as a bowstring. Audra and John both watched in tense, breathless silence. Finally, the officer snapped, barking a rebuke at the persistent woman. She responded once again, pointing into the camp insistently, and he struck her.

That is, he tried to strike her.

"Oh, damn –" John muttered, picking up his reins.

The officer's backhand swipe connected only with Heath's iron grip. Heath didn't strike back, he merely kept himself between Rivka and the officer, and let the officer's hand go. There was a long, tense, silent moment, and John watched the officer's hand hover over his sidearm. Heath said something that gave the officer pause and he took one step back, his eyes on Rivka.

At that juncture, the group at the prison gate was interrupted by the arrival of a rider, coming in at top speed. He pulled up with a spray of gravel in front of the officer, jumped to the ground, and delivered an envelope. The officer opened it and read it as the messenger climbed back up on his horse. The officer dismissed him with a wave, still reading the letter, and to John's surprise, the messenger wheeled his horse and was now galloping in their direction, waving as he came.

"What the devil is this, now?" John wondered.

At the prison gate, the officer folded the letter neatly, and indicated to Heath and Rivka that they should collect their gear. He then gestured to a guard, who pulled open the heavy stockade entryway. Heath and Rivka walked in. The high gate swung closed behind them, and they were lost to view.


	23. Chapter 22 - Tempest

_Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm_

 _Invades us to the skin. So 'tis to thee;_

 _But where the greater malady is fix'd,_

 _The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear;_

 _But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,_

 _Thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth._

 _This tempest will not give me leave to ponder_

 _On things would hurt me more._

* * *

 _William Shakespeare, "King Lear" Act 3 Sc. 4_

* * *

 _ **Indian Internment Camp, Sonora, California, December 1, 1874**_

Heath could see it, plain as the buttons on the officer's uniform: he recognized the exact moment the officer cracked and gave in to the violence roiling inside of him. When the officer lashed out at Rivka, Heath was already moving to intercede. He anticipated the trajectory as if the attack were an extension of his own body, his own movement.

For a surreal moment, it almost seemed it was, so attuned did Heath feel to the gnashing conflict of feelings he could sense in the man who had been sent to intimidate and dismiss them. The sound, the smell, the oppressive, familiar evil of the camp lay upon all of them like a miasma. As they arrived at the gate, the officer stepped forward to act out the role assigned to him, but it was clear he was ailing. He had a job to do, but both Heath and Rivka could see a sickness in his soul that grew with every circuit around that barbed wire fence. The officer had adopted the scorn of the conqueror as his armor, but it had worn thin in the face of the utter heartlessness of his daily tasks. He had reached for righteous, deprecating anger to get him through this war of words at the gate, but the woman would not stop trying to speak to his heart. His heart, in turn, screamed in rage at the sickness, and the sickness lashed out in rage at the woman.

When Heath blocked the officer's striking arm, gripping his fist in his own, their eyes met, and Heath remembered him. He didn't know his name. So much of those first days after liberation was a haze of delirium, but Heath recognized his voice and his posture and the birthmark on his neck. He had been a private with the medic corps that rode in with Canby to liberate Carterson, the first wave to enter and see up close the notorious Confederate death camp from which fewer than one prisoner in four emerged alive.

 _He's older than me, but not by much,_ Heath thought. _He would've been a young soldier then – he probably was assigned to shovel duty for the mass graves around the camp walls_. _He probably has had his own share of nightmares, especially now that_ **he's** _become the jailer._

Heath tried to speak to the blurred image of the young soldier he could see in his mind.

"You were there. I remember you. So many dead, but you came in and saved us that were left. You should remember that. For us that were left, that was everything." He saw the officer's eyes flicker, then focus on his face as though seeing him for the first time. "This woman is Dr. Levi's daughter. Do you remember? We three know what kind of Hell this place is. Let her do what she can. Let her try, at least, to save something from the fire."

Hoping he'd said the right thing, he let the officer's hand go. He felt Rivka behind him. They both knew it could all end very badly, right there and then at the gate, one more tragedy in the midst of an apocalypse. Her hand was warm where she gripped his shirt at the shoulder; she moved in closer beside him, both of them reaching for physical contact in that taut moment of decision. They watched as the man's gun hand hovered, battling with his ailing soul for the right to choose.

The soul prevailed, for the present at least, to dissuade the officer from gunning them down where they stood. He took a step back, looking at Rivka with recognition in his eyes.

A rider then arrived in a flurry of hooves and dirt, scattering the brief moment of connection between them. Standing at Heath's shoulder, Rivka whispered, "My mother and her good work step in to help from five hundred miles away. I hope I can live up to her example."

She sounded suddenly so young. "You already have, Rivka. Your mother is so proud of you. She believes in you, I believe in you, and I'm here to watch your back and do whatever I can to help you."

The message was delivered and read, and the rider galloped off. Then, to their surprise, Rivka and Heath were directed to collect their gear and enter the camp. The officer had fallen quickly back into his professional demeanor, his soul now hidden from their view as he barked orders to his men to open the gate. His voice was a rough, distant monotone.

"Wire from Sacramento. Dr. Thomas M. Logan, Chief of the California State Board of Public Health, has written identifying Dr. Rivka Levi as an Appointee of said Board, and has empowered her to make sanitary investigations and inquiries relative to the causes of disease, especially of epidemics, the source of mortalities, the effects of localities, employments, conditions, and circumstance on the public health of the people of this State; with special attention to Tuolumne County and the native Indians in that vicinity; to designate assistants of her choosing; and to make any medical interventions as she deems appropriate without interference."

"Boy howdy," Heath commented under his breath to Rivka. "Looks like John's telegrams reached the ranch. Mother and Jarrod pulling some pretty big strings."

The officer looked up from the paper, folded it, and regarded them from behind his armor, chinked and rusting as it was. His tired, angry eyes drifted away from Rivka. She was a strange and outlandish adversary, and right now he didn't have the energy to attack her. He turned instead on Heath, a far more familiar type of target. Gruff formality fell away, and the angry sickness was back.

"I suppose you're her designated assistant, is that it, Barkley? Well, I hope you enjoy your trip back into Hell, dog. This place is under quarantine. You go in there, you ain't coming back out for nothin', that's orders from the Colonel himself. Ain't no public health doctor gonna change the Colonel's orders, not when he gets here with two whole companies backing him up. So you go in there, this time, dog, you're gonna die in there." He shouted after them as they turned silently away from him and walked through the gate. "You **_hear_** me? You're both gonna die in there along with all them Indians!"

Heath flinched at the word **_both_**. He wondered briefly why the officer knew his name. The gate swung closed behind them, and they dropped their gear on the ground inside. In the sudden silence, the two of them just stood side by side looking at the purgatorial scene before them. Heath reached out to take Rivka's hand. Now her fingers were cold, and he could feel how rapidly her heart was beating. She took a shaky breath in that sounded a bit like a sob.

"Heath -?"

"Hmm?" He squeezed her hand in reply, pulling her a little closer to his side. As they watched, five or six groups of slow-moving, dark-cloaked Indians had risen to their feet and were approaching them from several directions.

He had a disturbing sensation of **_arrival_** that was quietly terrifying him; a feeling that his inner and outer worlds had suddenly aligned, matched up, and sprung into sharp, painful focus. Part of him welcomed the feeling: His nerves were humming, alert, ready to act, and he hoped he could use that energy to protect this brave woman he loved, and gain some ground on the burgeoning disaster before them. It certainly seemed a more practical mental condition than the scattered distraction under which he had been laboring. He was doing his best, however, not to think about what this **_arrival_** signified for him. He heard that raspy whisper, that voice in his ear that sometimes spoke with a honeyed southern accent. It fondly speculated that he would find no path of return from this state of mind, regardless of what Colonel Morgan and his two companies might allow.

Rivka squeezed his hand in reply, and though she was trembling, she laughed softly. "Feels kinda like old times, Heath. Like our first date."

"We never had a first date, darlin'. You kissed me, you stole my heart away, and you took it with you clear across the country for four years. Then you came back to find me half dead in prison."

"Exactly. Like our first date."

He considered this seriously. "Fair enough. Point taken."

"We need to stop meeting this way," she said earnestly and with just a hint of annoyance. Neither of them had taken their eyes from the silent figures encircling them. "I really enjoyed the picnic by the river. I'd also like to try a fancy restaurant and champagne, or almost any kind of dancing. Do you think you could manage it?"

"For you, darlin', anything. Anything."


	24. Chapter 23 - Keeping Faith

_For agony and spoil_

 _Of nations beat to dust,_

 _For poisoned air and tortured soil_

 _And cold, commanded lust,_

 _And every secret woe_

 _The shuddering waters saw—_

 _Willed and fulfilled by high and low—_

 _Let them relearn the Law._

 _Rudyard Kipling, "Justice"_

* * *

 ** _Outside Sonoma, California, evening, December 1, 1874_**

John dismounted and took a few steps toward the camp, then stood with his back to the group. Audra could picture the shadowing of pain in his grey eyes and in the expression of his lean, weathered face. She was certain he was staring at the closed stockade gate behind which Heath and Rivka had disappeared. Everything in his posture – the tension in his shoulders and hands, the movement of his clenched jaw – spoke to her of the worry and protective anger Marshal Smith was feeling, and the effort it was taking for him to keep his composure for the sake of the group still under his charge.

She shared his feelings. It had taken a conscious act of self-control for her not to call after Heath and Rivka to turn around and come back. She had wanted to scream after them, to be honest, scream and cry and beg them not to walk away. Audra knew it was their decision, though, and she thought she understood why they made that choice. On impulse, she climbed down from Nox and walked to John's side, slipping her arm through his. He startled slightly at her touch, so absorbed was he in his thoughts. Nevertheless, he gave her a gentle smile.

She looked up at him. "John," she affirmed, "we'll share the watch. Help is coming. Mother is on her way, with Nick, and Jarrod – I'm sure of it. And your marshals are coming. We'll stand the watch together until they come. We won't leave them here alone."

He nodded, looking down at her serious face. "No, we won't. You're right about that." He smiled again suddenly. "Hey. You called me John. That's twice today."

"I did," she agreed. "That's what my brothers call you. I'm trying to get used to it. You're counting?"

"No – well, not _counting_ , exactly –" He felt suddenly self-conscious, then had to laugh at himself. "Now that you mention it, I guess I am."

She smiled at that, and turned with him to face the camp and the approaching messenger.

* * *

The murmuring group of Miwok encircled Heath and Rivka. These were the strongest and healthiest of the prisoners, who could expend precious energy to rise from their familial huddles and approach the new arrivals. Yet even among these, to Heath's unprofessional but unfortunately experienced eye, the signs of lethal illness were everywhere; the wet cough, perspiration, and slow suffocation of influenza pneumonia; the dry, fevered hacking, spreading rash and red-rimmed eyes of typhus; the cracked lips and hollow faces of dehydration and dysentery. Gaunt children hung on their parents' legs, staring and unnaturally still. It was overwhelming, and Heath dearly hoped Rivka had some idea of what their first move should be.

He heard her fumbling in an inner coat pocket; hands trembling slightly, she pulled out a sheaf of papers evidently torn from Audra's journal. Rivka was looking almost as disconcerted as Heath felt, but apparently these papers were part of her plan of action, so, curious now, he waited to follow her lead.

Rivka cleared her throat and looked around at the beleaguered families. Heath imagined she was mentally cataloguing the markers of disease that could be seen on virtually every face and body before them. The sight, however, seemed to settle her; to her, it was was a call to duty, and to keep faith with her physician's oath. He saw her shoulder straighten and a familiar look of resolve come over her expression. Her eyes dropped to the papers in her hand, she took a breath, and slowly, carefully, she read two phrases in the Miwok language. Heath could see they were penned out in Audra's neat handwriting. The first phrase included their names and the name "Me'weh". The second phrase contained no words he recognized.

"What did you just say?" he whispered.

"I introduced us and said – I think – _we are here to help._ " She then loudly read another sentence, and looked expectantly at the group. She was met by silence, confused looks, and not a few furrowed brows.

"What did you say then?" Heath whispered urgently. The muted but unsettled reaction from the Miwok was making him very uneasy.

"I asked if there is a chief or a healer shaman among them," she responded, sounding both anxious and a little defensive. "I thought I read it right…"

"Well…try it again. Go on. Though they're already not looking too hospitable -" he glanced around them apprehensively.

She swallowed, lifted her paper, and read the question again, even slower this time, louder, with careful diction. She then looked hopefully at the scowling faces around then, and waited for a response. No Chief or Shaman stepped forward. The Miwok began to turn and murmur to each other, and Heath was fairly sure he heard Rivka's phrase being repeated among them, accompanied by facial expressions of puzzlement and concentration. Unaccountably, one of the older children giggled, only to be quickly hushed by her parent. A moment later, a tall man limped to the front of the group and suggested politely – in English - that perhaps Rivka should repeat her question in that language, as they were having difficulty understanding her in Miwok.

She did so.

There was another heavy, expectant silence. Then the girl-child burst out laughing again, unable to obey her parents' command to behave. Moments later, the entire group of Miwok was overcome with hilarity, laughing until tears ran down their faces or until they were too winded by coughing to continue.

* * *

Marshal Smith had positioned his small party on the most advantageous hilltop he could identify from which to monitor the goings-on in the camp. As he waited for the messenger to reach them from the gate, he began to hear sounds from the enclosure. His first alarming thought was that he was hearing cries of mourning and despair. He wondered how many souls death had taken just during this one day alone. He listened, and then he realized that what he was hearing was laughter. The sound struck him as utterly mysterious and a bit frightening, given the context; all he could do was pray that Heath and Rivka had met with some kind of friendly welcome and not a mob of laughing lunatics.

The approaching rider was close enough now that Smith could recognize him: it was Peale's deputy Sean Thomas, the older of the two brothers. Hoping for some good news, John and Audra waited as he reached their hilltop and dismounted. As previously, he greeted Audra politely and Marshal Smith with something approaching awe. At Smith's instruction, however, he willingly dispensed with the military review decorum; he had a lot of information to deliver, and he could do it more efficiently if he didn't have to stand there like a tin soldier.

Sean did bring good news: He and his brother had taken the Marshal's advice to heart. They hadn't returned to Jamestown; instead, they had ridden directly to Sonora to offer their service to Marshal Montana. Roman had then continued on to Jubilee to find Frank Sawyer. Messages had been received that Victoria Barkley was en route with both of her sons and two wagon loads of supplies for Dr. Levi's field hospital, and they expected to arrive before sundown tomorrow. Dr. Logan had written from Sacramento appointing Dr. Levi to act as an agent of the Dept. of Public Health, which notice had gained her and her assistant entry into the camp. US Marshals Montana in Sonora, Sawyer in Jubilee, Ramos and Roberts in Nevada, and several other marshals based in adjoining counties had all been notified of the developing situation at the camp. Montana and Sawyer were already en route, and additional responses were expected.

Over the years, and especially since the war, the Army had been deployed extensively to carry out the work of Indian "suppression", control, and relocation. The US Marshal Service, however, as the agency tasked with federal law enforcement, could claim any legal affairs concerning Indians on or off the reservation as falling under their jurisdiction – including the protection of such Indians from unlawful violence or enslavement. This power, to John's way of thinking, was one that had been vastly underused. The shape of the developing confrontation in Sonora was coming clear to him now, and he had sent that message out loud and clear to his deputies in the region. Smith realized they were coming late – perhaps far too late – to this war. The Miwok, along with every other Indian group in the state, were dying off at rate so rapid it was difficult to conceive, crushed by organized and vigilante violence, internment, forced labor, disease and starvation. The scattered groups that remained counted to roughly one eighth of the number of Indians that had peopled California just 25 years before, and those few, such as the beleaguered souls imprisoned here, were steadily failing.

Smith realized, too, that this might not be a battle he could win; he would be facing the US Army, an opponent with the support of public opinion, private wealth, and the Governor of California. Nonetheless, the Marshal intended to make a stand, and he expected it to get very ugly.

It seemed quite likely this would end his career. He nodded to himself philosophically, gazing back over the camp as the sun began to set. If he came out of this with mortal wounds of only a political nature, though, he figured he'd call himself a lucky man.


	25. Chapter 24 - A Face of War

_How does thy beauty smooth_ _  
The face of war, and make even horror smile!  
At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows;  
I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me,  
And for a while forget th' approach of Cæsar._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

 ** _Outside Sonoma, California, evening, December 1, 1874_**

The gravelly sound of the stockade gate swinging closed behind them made Rivka feel as if she would jump out of her skin. Her face and hands were numb, and her own exactingly vivid memories of Carterson pressed in, demanding an audience.

 _You're hyperventilating. Just stop it. Look at the sky, slow your breathing, look at the clouds. You're not underground. Look at the sky._

She felt Heath's hand close around hers. It felt so warm. She wanted to turn away and hide her face against his chest, feel his arms around her, but his presence gave her strength, and helped her move forward instead, eyes open. For all that Heath seemed so broken and lost, it seemed to Rivka she could feel his heart, even when he feared he had lost sight of it himself; it was for her a pole star, glowing with a steady, quiet rhythm. She squeezed his hand and ached for time just to be with him, to love him and be loved, but she had spoken the truth to him last night. She would rather be standing at his side in this ruined ghost of a farm-turned-prison, than be safe and sound somewhere without him.

A decade ago, for eight months at the end of the war, she and her family had been trapped in hiding underground, while the Union soldiers imprisoned above steadily grew sick and died, starved and died, were beaten and died. She and her mother had done what little they could to help the men who protected them, but malnutrition, disease, inhumanity and violence were the true rulers of Carterson. These were the Four Horsemen, then and now; here again, they were the enemy to be fought. She looked out at the people circling around them. Their suffering and illness were plain to see. She would fight on their behalf.

 _You're not underground. Look at the sky. Remember Heath is here with you, and terrible as this place is, we still have so much more to work with then we ever did in Carterson. Remember that._

She pulled out the paper on which Audra had written the Miwok phrases Husu had recited to her, and read them out as clearly and as confidently as she could manage. The initial confused response was disconcerting; Rivka was hugely relieved when one of the men stepped forward and asked her to speak English instead. She was already thinking ahead – _When we start assigning tasks, we'll have to determine who and how many of them are English-speakers and make sure there are some in each group to help –_ she was lost in this train of thought when the whole group broke down in laughter. Rivka and Heath stared at each other, speechless, and she wondered, very briefly, if this was a bizarre dream, or whether perhaps the Miwok had lost their minds. Then – because Rivka was nothing if not a diligent student who always did her homework – she felt a trifle annoyed and indignant.

"What is so funny? I read it exactly the way Husu told me. _Exactly_."

This information sent the group into a fresh bout of laughter, punctuated by a few gasping expressions of "Husu -? Husu told you -? Oh, did you hear that, **_Husu_** said –"

Heath finally couldn't keep a straight face, between the weeping, gasping Indians and Rivka's confused indignation. "OK, OK, c'mon, we got a lot of work to do, and you gotta let us in on the joke. Just what exactly is so funny?"

An older woman in a faded, patched, but elaborately painted deerskin dress stepped up beside the tall man. She had been grinning, but she schooled her round face into a more serious mien, and introduced herself as Haja*, Husu's older sister, and the eldest of their father's surviving children to remain to lead the village.

Haja was a shaman herb healer; Papati had apprenticed her at a young age when the two of them both began to have dreams indicating her abilities in that area. She had served as healer for their village now for many years, stepping into that role when Papati died during their second winter on the reservation. The role of _winemah_ , village leader, became hers as well as soon as she reached adulthood, at first because her father and older brothers were fighting in the hills, then later when the last of them was killed. In Miwok tradition, the title and authority of leader was hereditary, devolving to the eldest child, whether male or female. In the case of a female heir, however, the husband would act as a spokesman for the chief in large public gatherings or in dealings with outsiders. The tall Miwok who first spoke to Rivka was Haja's husband, Kosumi**. He deferred to her as she came forward, stepping aside and wiping his eyes as he too regained his composure.

Neither of them looked well. Haja was wheezing and could barely complete a sentence without stopping to breathe, but her gaze was alert and kind, and she spoke with affection and humor.

"If we had any doubt that our kin were safe with you, your message has pushed that aside," she said, looking at Rivka. "Husu is a bit of a joker. He plays with words. He has always been that way. But I can see he wanted to make sure we knew you were friends. He sent us a joke, so we would know that he and Hekeke and the children are safe." Her eyes crinkled. "You thought you were telling us who you are, that you were here to help, and asking whether one of us was chief or a healer."

Rivka nodded, looking at her paper, starting to smile herself. "Ye-es…" she said hesitantly. "I'm almost afraid to ask what it was I actually said."

"Oh, it was nothing _bad_. You gave us your names, and told us that this young man here is the blind squirrel Husu's been telling stories about since he was a boy. All our little ones still want to hear about the _Pele Me'weh_ before their sleeping time."

 _Blind squirrel?_ Heath winced and blushed slightly. _All these years, I've been a blind squirrel in a bedtime story?_ Now Rivka was laughing as well.

"Then you told us you were here to beg for food! Then you asked if any of us were logs – or tarantulas – and looked so _hopeful_ that one of us would raise a hand and step forward. Oh, that was funny. Thank you." She laughed, but quickly had to stop to catch her breath. "Husu – has always tried to keep us laughing – through some terrible times. But this, now – this is worse than it has ever been. And still he tries." Haja looked around her at the people who were her responsibility, pain and worry for them lining her round, weathered face. She was perspiring despite the cooling air, and she wiped her brow. Rivka moved quickly to her side.

" _Winemah_ , can we sit for a moment and talk? We brought as much food and drink as we could carry. Can we share it around and talk about what we're hoping to do? We need to set up shelter, especially for the ones who are sick, and Heath is going to try to find the well-head for this farm so we can have a steady water supply. We expect more supplies, and help is coming, but right now we're going to need a hand from anyone who thinks they're strong enough to keep moving."

* * *

 _*Haja – Daylight_

 _**Kosumi – Spear-fisher_


	26. Chapter 25 - Acorns and Blind Squirrels

_The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

 _This is going to be a long night,_ John thought to himself as he moved through the task of setting up their campsite. Audra was alternately tending to the horses and checking on the Miwok family; he could hear Husu playing a hand game with the children and making them laugh. John had pitched their tents and gathered stones and firewood. As he constructed a rough but functional fire pit, his eyes kept returning to the grim barbed wire-wrapped prison below him, and the low, orderly rows of Army tents encamped on a rise just beyond. From his vantage point – chosen for just this reason - John could see most of the fence-enclosed space of the internment camp, except for what was hidden by the barn and various outbuildings. He could see a fair distance down the road to the west, toward Stockton, along which he expected to see Col. Morgan and his companies approach. The trail from the northwest, the direction of the Barkley Ranch, was also visible. John dearly hoped Victoria and her sons would reach them ahead of the troops that were certainly en route already from the coast; failing that, he hoped they would keep to that northwest approach to Sonora, and thus avoid a premature confrontation with Morgan's troops.

After the unexpected sounds of laughter had faded, there had been quiet in the camp, as Rivka and Heath sat down to talk with the group of Miwok who had come forward to meet them at the gate. Now, however, he could see movement and what appeared to be organized activity. Heath appeared to have a close following of children wherever he moved, including several adolescent boys and girls who were carrying the tools he had packed in. Heath went first to the boarded up barn, and using a shovel as a pry bar, proceeded to breach the main doors. Rivka and a group of Miwok adults entered, John presumed, to begin preparing the shelter to serve as a field hospital. Heath then moved off with his entourage of children, whom he had equipped with small leafy branches. They spread out and began sweeping the ground. Audra and Husu came to stand beside John, watching the activity.

"What are those children doing?" Audra wondered.

"I know the first thing they need is water," John replied. "Heath is sure there's a well head somewhere around that house. It's probably boarded up, and covered with who knows how much dirt by now. I expect that's what they're hunting for."

"The children seem to have latched on to Heath like a flock of baby ducklings."

Husu chuckled and nodded. "Not ducklings. Squirrels."

"Squirrels?" Audra was intrigued, and still wondering over the fact that Heath and this Miwok boy had somehow known each other a long time ago. She hadn't caught the whole story – something about a fire, when Heath was ten and Husu was for or five years old.

"They all know the stories. For fifteen years I've told them tales about Pele Me'weh, the blind squirrel who saved my life. They know the real story, of course, that your brother there was a boy who was found injured by my village. I was little – I named him Squirrel because he fell out of the trees into the river. But over the years, I've made up so many adventure and hero stories about Pele Me'weh, the blind squirrel, he is not just a boy anymore, he's a mythical animal spirit, a legend. Sometimes he's a brave warrior, sometimes he barely escapes on his wits alone, sometimes he's a clown, and sometimes he's wise." Husu looked out at what was left of his village with so much love and sadness in his eyes Audra thought for a moment her heart would break. "We have felt as if we had reached our end. We had no more hope or future to offer the little ones, nothing to point to and say _look, look up ahead, be proud, be strong_.

"So I tell them stories to give them a glimpse of that feeling because we could find it nowhere in the world now. But look at what's happened! Here's is the wandering blind squirrel himself, large as life! It was meant to be. I'm sure of it. It is something to lift them up, those little ones, give them hope, make them laugh. Something to show them that they matter."

Hekeke joined them, murmuring to Husu that the two children were tucked in and asleep for the night. Overhearing Husu's words, she too laughed and shook her head, amazed that the squirrel had reappeared in their lives. She smiled sadly at Audra. "Your family has been part of our village's history for many, many years, and it seems you will continue to be. Did your men take him into your home after the burning?" she wondered. "Is that how Me'weh came to join your family? "

Audra's brow furrowed, and she looked at Hekeke and Husu in some confusion. "No," she answered, "he came to us only a year and a half ago. He grew up in Strawberry. We didn't know about him before then." _And why do they call him a **blind** squirrel? _

"Didn't know about…?" Husu also was confused. _What was there to know about?_ The wealthy rancher and his sons – the Barkley name hadn't been forgotten in his village since that terrible night of fire. _Apparently they decided not to take in the injured squirrel. I think I cannot blame them, exactly – my **own** people chose to leave Me'weh there alone in the path of death. _"I see – so it was the brown-skinned woman who brought him home safe. I have often thought she was the real hero of the story, anyway. She saved us both, and she cared for me until Teleli came to bring me back to my family."

"You mean Hannah?" Audra said with animation. "Oh, yes, Hannah is _wonderful_. You could come see her, she would love to meet you all grown up!"

Still puzzled, Husu began to ask another question, but he was interrupted by whinnying and the sounds of restlessness among the tethered horses. Audra immediately turned to investigate. She walked quickly toward their tether line on the east side of their campsite, the setting sun full behind her and illuminating in gold the rolling foothills that rose toward Sonora. Nox cried out again, snorted, and whuffed at the evening air. She pranced and came about on her lead line to look eastward, her eyes and ears completely focused on a wagon rumbling toward them, accompanied by a single rider on horseback.

"It's Moshe!" Audra cried, waving.

"Hope he's bringing us more good news," John commented as he joined her, grey eyes studying the approaching travelers. "And I do believe that's Marshal Montana riding beside him. That alone is excellent news." He and Audra began walking out to meet them.

Behind them, Nox was becoming increasingly agitated and uncharacteristically vocal. Audra wondered why – until she saw that Moshe had a passenger - a young man who seemed to be holding crutches. "No…could it be…?"

John looked back at her as she stopped in her tracks. "Audra? What is it?"

But she had already starting running back to the horses. Reaching Nox, she hugged the big black mare, slipped off her halter, and turned her loose.

 _Good Lord, that is one beautiful, powerful horse,_ John couldn't help but think. _She seems otherworldly, mythical, empyreal._ In the telling of it later, John would swear that Nox became calm the moment Audra released her. She did not push Audra out of her way nor even jostle the other horses. She stepped sedately clear of the tether line. Then Nox turned to the girl who had nursed her back to health – a girl beautiful and powerful in her own right - and lowered her head in a graceful bow of thanks.

The wagon had stopped a small distance away, and the young man had climbed to the ground, his movements slow, painful and awkward. He was very thin, and very pale. He had lost a leg, they could now see; he did not appear to have full use of his left arm; and he struggled mightily to take even few steps forward on his crutches. He had been scorched with grief and loss, but life, and purpose, still blazed in him. Peter stood like a slim, white-hot ember in the light of the sunset, needing only a gust of wind to burst into flame.

Audra felt tears falling from her eyes, and a fierce, mournful joy in her heart. She received Nox's gesture with a gentle stroke of her hand along her neck, and said gently, _Go_. The horse named _Nachtmusik_ took three prancing steps backward, her eyes on Audra. Then she pivoted and took off at a thundering gallop to rejoin the boy she had lost in the mountains.


	27. Chapter 26 - Yayali Approaches

Chapter 26 – Yayali Approaches

 _Memory is the mother of all wisdom._

 _Aeschylus_

"Me'weh, tell us the story about how you tricked Yayali* the giant and trapped him in a tree!"

"But I don't know the story of Yayali. Can you tell it to me?"

"How can you not know the story of Yayali? You are being silly, Me'weh." The little girl who was currently riding on Heath's shoulders leaned forward to look him sternly, upside-down, in the eye. Heath could not help but smile. She was barely six years old, weighed almost nothing, and her little round face was adorable.

"I like how you tell it better, Malila. But I know you have been coughing so much maybe it's hard for you to tell it now. Let's have your brother Kono tell it while we keep looking for the well. Then when we find the water, we can tell the story of how you and Kono and Me'weh helped to find water for your village."

Kono, a boy of eight who had come through several sicknesses so far in pretty good condition, flashed a willing smile up at Heath and his sister as he continued to sweep the ground with his branch. He liked telling stories – it made the work go faster. He took a breath to begin, but Heath interrupted him.

"Remember, you've got to tell me what you're saying as you go along. I don't speak Miwok, and I don't want to miss anything."

Kono nodded and launched into an animated, sing-song recitation in Miwok, stopping periodically to translate for Heath. Everyone within earshot, from child to adult, seemed to be following along, nodding and smiling at the familiar tale.

Heath listened, but he didn't take his eyes from his task. His worry was rising every minute that passed that brought them closer to sunset without locating the well head. He had been directing his searchers in organized, overlapping search paths, gradually moving outward from the collapsed ruin of the farmhouse. He had reviewed with them what signs to seek: any stonework or any square or circular shapes in the ground; any sign of pipes or metalwork; really anything they found that was manmade in the ground he wanted to know about. So far, though, no luck, and their situation would go from bad to truly ominous if he didn't find something before dark.

Once they were sure they could use the barn for shelter, Heath had repurposed one of their tents to catch and filter rainwater runoff from the barn roof, as a temporary measure – presuming they got more rain – but that would not be sufficient to keep this village alive. Heath took a deep breath and scrubbed his face with his hands. Casting his eye once again over the terrain around the house, he wondered if he'd missed something.

"So then, Pele Me'weh lured Yayali the giant up into the Digger Pine, saying look at these pine nuts, they are the biggest and best in all the mountains. And Yayali followed Pele Me'weh up the tree thinking, I'll have the pine nuts and eat the squirrel too! And the two women Yayali had frightened and chased down to the valley before, came back to the foot of the tree, and they piled brush at the bottom of the tree, and they set it on fire. And Yayali cried and said which way will I die? And the women and their people said, to the west you're to die! But he didn't want to. Die to the south! they cry. But he doesn't want to. To the north, die to the north! they sing to him, but he is afraid and doesn't want to. Die to the east, Yayali! they shout, and as they shout, he dies that way. His head rolls away, east, and turns to obsidian, that is Arrowpoint Rock in the east. His body turns to rock where it fell, and they named it Kulto, the place that used to be his body."

"Kulto?" Heath asked.

"Kulto is the long flat mountain that curves like a snake into the valley, there," Malali pointed.

"Table Mountain," Heath said. "Of course. So that's where it came from? It used to be a giant? I never knew that."

"Of course you knew that, Me'weh. You are silly. I'm glad you got your eyes back though."

"Maybe he didn't know it was a giant because he was blind," suggested Kono.

 _Blind. What am I not seeing now?_ Heath studied the skeleton of the farmhouse again, this time noticing a pile of rubble that extended out from a back corner of the foundation, roughly where the kitchen would have been placed. _I wonder if they built a well-house so it would be attached to the kitchen?_ He started moving in that direction, suddenly certain. "Kona, bring a few of the bigger boys over here with me."

Within minutes, Heath had his whole search party lined up and moving debris away from the collapsed structure beside the house foundation. He kept the little ones under close observation, and cautioned all of them to watch where they were stepping, because they didn't know yet where the opening would be. The last thing they needed was to have one of them fall into a hole in the ground.

Finally, there it was, the wooden cover starting to rot but still thick and heavy and nailed in place. Heath felt such relief it was as if the weight of all that rubble just rolled off his shoulders. He sent two of the kids running to bring a length of rope and a lantern from their supplies. He then set to work on prying open the cover, hammering successively larger stones under the edge of the heavy lid until one of the older boys had room to wedge a shovel underneath. Once they managed that, it was short work to lever it the rest of the way off, the rain-swollen boards groaning loudly in protest. A cheer went up as it fell heavily to the side.

The lantern wobbled and threw crazy leaping shadows over the side walls of the well as they lowered it carefully down.

 _Good thing I brought all of our rope,_ Heath thought. _There's water in there, but looks to be about fifty feet down, and it gets awfully narrow down there at the bottom. Too narrow for a bucket._ "They must have had a hand pump here at some point," he said, thinking out loud. "Here's a pipe – though it doesn't seem to reach all the way down to the water line –" His mind was racing, trying out different scenarios. _How am I gonna get that water up here to these people?_

He sat back on his heels and looked thoughtfully around at the crowd of children – and a few adults now – who were watching him expectantly. They were gaunt, most of them; they were exhausted, their lips cracked and dry, and the fever was rapidly stealing what was left of their strength. He had to move fast. "OK, listen up. First thing is we have to protect the edge of the well. It won't do us any good if we let dirt and debris, or rain runoff, get in and foul the well water. Kona, you and your friend there collect some good flat stones, and you're going to build a solid wall around the mouth of the well. Understand? Next, I need someone to bring some cups and our coffee pot from our supplies, and the rest of our rope."

Heath figured he'd start just by lowering the coffee pot down into the narrow well and ladling up what he could, just to pass around a drink of fresh water to everyone to tide them over. After that...he had an idea. It was an idea that made his mouth go dry with anxiety and his stomach tie up in knots, but it scared him less than the thought of letting these suffering people die of thirst. He was going to have to climb down in the well himself and rig up a rope pump.

He rose to his feet and stepped over the pump house rubble into the yard, now lost in thought. He heard a few of the adults behind him beginning the process of bringing up some water, a few cups at a time. He was going to need something to extend the pipe down below the water level, and something to use as a pulley at the top, and -

"Shoulder ride, Me'weh!"

Malali, with a burst of energy from her share of water, trotted over to Heath and tugged on his belt in decidedly proprietary fashion. He smiled at her and dutifully knelt down so she could climb up. She covered his eyes, laughing. "Pele Me'weh," she whispered in his ear.

Through the muddled bands of dark and light her child's fingers laid across his vision, Heath saw a long shadow – several long shadows – fall over them. Her hands came down to rest on his shoulders, and Heath looked up to see a semicircle of unfriendly faces.

"Malali," he said to her, "I think I need to talk to these men. I'll come give you a shoulder ride in just a minute, OK?"

She scowled up at the men, then she hugged Heath and patted him gently on the cheek. "Me'weh," she said fondly, and then ran off.

Heath didn't stand up right away – for a moment he didn't trust himself not to fall over. Malali's gesture, her child's voice and her soft hand on his cheek, had abruptly unbalanced him, and he held very still for a moment, praying that whatever he was remembering right now would back off so he could steady himself to deal with – with - _well, deal with whatever the hell this trouble is going to be,_ he thought, as he tried to slow his breathing.

 _"My boy's eyesight seems to be coming back slowly, but he still can't see much more than shapes and shadows. He remembers your voice and your smell. He tells me you passed through here a few days ago warning the Miwok villages hereabouts."_

 _"Yes, ma'am," said the young man. "Our driver can take you both back to Strawberry - in our supply wagon. He's going up that way anyway. That is where_ _you're from? I think that's what your boy told me -"_

 _"Yes - yes, that's where we're from. We thank you kindly for your help."_

 _Why am I remembering this? Something Hannah said? What is it?_ The memory was making him feel very unsettled, all the more so because he couldn't put his finger on the source of the danger; still, it was there, a warning drum, thumping low and faint in the distance, coming closer. Heath looked up again at the men standing around him, their faces shadowed and unreadable with the sun sinking behind them. Pushing away the echo of Sutamasina with an effort, Heath slowly straightened up. "Afternoon," he ventured.

"Not all of us think you're a good omen, White boy."

* * *

 _This story of the origin of Table Mountain is a Miwok myth, though it doesn't include a blind squirrel hero - that part is fiction._


	28. Chapter 27 - Spoils of War

_At length the winds are raised, the storm blows high!  
Be it your care, my friends, to keep it up  
In all its fury, and direct it right,  
Till it has spent itself on Cato's head._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

 ** _Stockton, California, December 1, 1874_**

It was a very pleasant, unusually warm evening in Stockton. The streets had a festive air. The presence of two companies of the Army encamped just south of the city brought a surge of business into town; stores and vendors up and down Main St. and El Dorado were staying open late to take advantage. Local families were out walking and shopping for the holidays, off-duty soldiers and support personnel were drinking and dancing, and men with money and Machiavellian ambition met and smoked cigars in the private, leather-upholstered dining rooms of the San Joaquin Gentleman's Club.

Colonel Harrison Morgan leaned back in a deep comfortable armchair and exhaled an aromatic cloud of smoke toward the ceiling with a quiet sigh of relief. The rough masculine luxury, the quiet of the room and the respectful service spoke to him of power and influence. It was more intoxicating than the excellent scotch he was sipping. Such a pleasure after a full day's travel with his troops.

His present company left a bit to be desired, but Morgan could accept that philosophically, for the time being. He regarded the three men sitting across from him through a haze of smoke. Irksome as they might be, Colonel Morgan and these three gentlemen had much to gain from their present alliance.

Perspiring and anxiously nursing a watered down brandy, to Morgan's left sat Joseph Minter, President of the Stockton Bank, a profoundly sanctimonious and humorless man. Unlike the other men present, who knowingly employed fear-mongering and social prejudices to further their reach for power, Minter was motivated almost entirely by honest bigotry and wounded pride. He was deeply, morally offended by the Barkley family's descent into bastardy, not to mention their acceptance of a Jewess into the household. Minter was unable to maintain a facade of Christian civility when the bastard – just out of _prison_ , no less - dared to enter his office a few weeks ago to sign off on financial transactions that even the banker found impressive. Minter's disapproval was all the more vehement because he had in the past so admired the family, as a younger man making his way in the respectable world of finance. Motivated by this admiration, he had once earnestly courted Victoria, when an appropriate period of time had passed after her husband's death. She had rejected him, promptly. Her equally prompt marriage to the renowned Marshal John Smith had now earned for the new couple Minter's eternal, righteous enmity.

Lounging beside Minter, swirling a tumbler of expensive bourbon, was the Hon. Josiah Mills: California Congressman, former pro-slavery Chiv, and wealthy businessman. He possessed large agricultural holdings, on which he made extensive use of indentured Indians for labor and household work. In addition, Mills was currently profiting handsomely from a broad government contract brokering supplies to Digger reservations, a business venture in which he and Colonel Morgan were financial partners. Their warehouses and stockyards took in supplies purchased with taxpayer money according to the terms of various tribal treaties. These supplies were then largely diverted, and sold at a profit to the highest bidder. Mills was deeply interested in expanding these operations into Tuolumne County. He was just as deeply interested in eliminating or otherwise disabling a certain senior U.S. Marshal who had troubled him plenty in the past, and who looked to be standing in his way again up there in Sonora.

The third man at the table was their host for the evening: Sheriff Martin Peale, savoring a glass of wine so dark it looked like blood in the low, flickering lamplight. Morgan examined Peale surreptitiously with a mixture of repulsion and admiration. He was so intrusively, so smoothly _venomous_ , like those beautifully colorful frogs in the Amazon that sparkled like rain-moist fruit and could poison you with just the touch of their skin. Peale had just now become impressively focused and still, Morgan noticed, as he settled in to feed on his current prey. His acquisitive stare had come to rest upon the sweating Mr. Minter, from whom Peale was slowly but steadily extracting a large financial commitment in support of Mills' upcoming re-election campaign, as well as donations to several key senators who would endorse Morgan's current expedition into Tuolumne and his promotion to the rank of Brigadier General. The bloodletting was both gruesome and fascinating to watch.

It had been Peale, with his encyclopedic knowledge of facts, rumors, and secrets, who had brought the four men together in an alliance that could bring each of them enormous benefits. Morgan had to admire the imagination and insight of the man, not to mention his naked ambition. Peale had spotted the opportunity the Sonora internment camp presented and arranged their meeting here at the San Joaquin. He knew a great deal about each of his co-conspirators; he had identified their desires; more important, he had catalogued their vulnerabilities to ensure his own security in this alliance.

Peale had known, for example, that Minter would accept his invitation this evening to conspire - behind the scenes, at least - against the Barkley family. Minter was miserly as well as cowardly, however, and so once he had been lured to the table, Peale had to wield some other form of coercion to get the money he wanted. Morgan didn't know exactly what threat Peale held over the perspiring banker, but he could make an educated guess, as it appeared to involve the very handsome, very engaging young waiter that Peale had ensured would be their server this evening. Minter's eyes followed the young man around the room, except when he appeared at their table; then Minter would stare fixedly into his glass of brandy.

 _The Congressman's connection here was easier to figure,_ Morgan thought, watching the lanky politician sit back and relax while Peale squeezed Minter for money. Peale had partnered with Mills on several business ventures, and as a lawman he was well-positioned to facilitate Mills' expansion into Tuolumne. It was reasonable to think Peale would be even more effective in that regard when he was promoted to Marshal Smith's position – once the vacancy was secured, of course, and the appointment assured on the strength of Congressman Mills' recommendation. From that vantage point, one rung below the U.S. Attorney General, Morgan suspected Peale would then set his sights on Washington, D.C.

Mutual profit certainly set the foundation for that alliance, but Morgan was certain Peale also had some kind of compromising information on the Congressman, kept in reserve for security's sake, just in case their plan of mutual promotion ran into difficulty – just as he had done for Colonel Morgan. Another swirling cloud of cigar smoke roiled lazily to the ceiling as he exhaled, trying to banish the fear that tightened in him when he thought of what Peale could do to him with the evidence he possessed. _Nothing to be done about it right now, Harrison, don't waste your energy on worry._ Morgan despised waste, when it involved his time or effort, and he despised worry. When the time and opportunity came to act, he would act.

Morgan's desires were relatively easy to discern: promotion in the wake of Canby's death; a few more years of profit and power in the war to subjugate the Indians; continued financial success upon his return to civilian life; and an advantageous marriage into a family of wealth and status. Peale had taken steps in recent days to further those aims, as the current meeting reflected. He had given the Colonel to know, however, that he was in possession of information regarding the assassination of General Canby that Morgan could not afford to have made public, if he wished to remain a free man. The sheriff had provided proof to that effect. He had softened the pain of his revelation by confessing his knowledge of the details of another recent crucial event, though how Peale had come by _that_ information was a mystery.

Morgan took another swallow of scotch and let his mind wander as the illusory heat of the alcohol warmed his chest. _Such an irresistible confluence of events. The opportunity – it would be so satisfying. Such a sense of closure…_

 _Earlier in the evening, he and Peale had met privately in the sheriff's hotel room. Morgan sat on the overstuffed settee and watched Peale move about the room becoming increasingly animated and enthusiastic as he painted a picture of confrontation, conquest, and ambitions fulfilled._

 _"Just see it in your mind, Colonel." Peale's insinuating baritone wrapped around him, soothing his anger and his abraded ego. "The bastard won't be able to resist. The do-good charity Jewess will run to save those Diggers, and the bastard will go with her. He will walk of his own accord back into prison, where you can do with him, **finally** , what you choose." Peale was warming to his own description, encouraged by the heat and interest he saw growing in Morgan's eyes. "It gets better, my friend. The Indian raiders are attacking more and more frequently – attacking homes, white women, white children – the people of this county are looking to you to put this right, Colonel. There are raiders hiding among the Indians in the camp – the Indians protect them, and therefore they must be punished as well. **You** will be the one to end this threat to our people. _

_"The Marshal knows you are coming, Colonel. John Smith, the very man who struck away your promotion just as it was in your hand. The man who challenged the rightful decisions you made in wartime and used that mongrel's pathetic story to humiliate you in front of your commanders. Marshal John Smith will see you, Colonel, coming to crush that camp and everyone inside it, and he too will not be able to resist. He will stand right in your path and he will fall under your boots."_

 _Peale concluded with a dramatic sweep of his arm, then paused for a moment to let his message sink in. He came now to sit beside Morgan on the settee, and spoke in a more confidential, intimate tone. "There is more. You **will** be made General, and soon. You are a young man, still, Colonel, and a very handsome one, I don't mind saying. Your manners are impeccable, you can be quite charming when you choose, you are fit and athletic, and you look dashing in your uniform." He chuckled as Morgan began to look askance at this odd flood of compliments. "I'll get to the point. The Barkleys have a daughter who has just reached marriageable age. She is spectacularly beautiful. She's the youngest – she's run a bit headstrong and wild since her father died, so she'll need some saddle-breaking, no doubt – but I do think you two should meet. And - it just so happens – this wild beauty is out on a field trip with her new step-father. Yes indeed. Miss Audra Barkley is right there in Sonora. Perhaps she'll need a strong shoulder to support her when that step-father and bastard brother are lost in the melee…ah, the fortunes of war…so tragic…" _

Morgan smiled to himself. The Thomson bastard would be easy to crush. No contest there, but potentially a devastating blow to the Marshal who seemed to have appointed himself the kid's protector. He couldn't imagine it wouldn't come as a relief, though, to the rest of the family. Morgan had no pressing need, at this point in his career, to curry favor with the Barkleys, but it could be a side benefit, as they'd probably be glad to get the troublesome half-breed off the family payroll. _Jarrod is the oldest_ , he remembered; _he is the lawyer, and the one with political connections_. Certainly he'd appreciate Morgan culling that one out of the herd? _They might appreciate it if I took Audra off their hands too, come to think of it_. _And if they don't, well…_ Morgan beckoned the handsome waiter back to their table to refill his scotch. He nodded his thanks, sat back in his armchair, and relaxed, imagining with pleasure the full range of possibilities that could arise from an entanglement with Miss Audra Barkley.


	29. Chapter 28 - Omens, Choices and Acorns

_Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head,  
_ _And threatens ev'ry hour to burst upon it;  
_ _Still may you stand high in your country's honours—  
_ _Do but comply, and make your peace with Cæsar._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

"Audra!" John heard Moshe call out a warm greeting as she ran toward the peddler's wagon, eager to meet Peter and bring both men to their campsite. The marshal watched her go, a smile on his lips. _There's a good thing we did,_ he thought. _Though - that story is far from over - going to have to get looking for Ilsa as soon as possible. Husu could help us find her, maybe, if he felt safe leaving his sister-in-law and the two children here with Victoria and Audra. Perhaps Jarrod and Nick could go with him?_

It was becoming clear to John that he was not going to be able to go himself in search of Ilsa. All the evidence indicated that Morgan was bringing an army of mercenaries to this camp. Morgan's objective, with the sanction of the Governor of California, was to kill, indenture, or otherwise incarcerate these Indians – kill by starvation and disease, or by force of arms if a quicker resolution was needed. John could not allow that to happen. He saw no choice - either as an honorable man or as a law enforcement representative of the U.S. government - but to place himself in Colonel Morgan's path.

 _Won't be the first time a marshal's put his head in the lion's mouth when local power defies federal law,_ John considered. Since the end of the war, the Marshal Service had taken on a fair share of the violence and risk involved in enforcing emancipation and suffrage for freedmen in the former slave states, and prosecuting the Ku Klux Klan. Adding to the danger was the fact that U.S. Marshals, to date, had enjoyed little to no immunity from imprisonment and prosecution by state officials for actions taken in the line of duty. As a result, anywhere state and local officials chose to repulse the exercise of federal power, they were likely also to start searching for reasons to arrest the federal marshals. _Comes down to that,_ John considered, _at least I know a good lawyer. And I'm in a position now I can honestly claim that any other marshals involved were there following my orders. At least we wouldn't all go down._

The sun had set. John removed his hat and rubbed the tense muscles of his neck.

"You look worried, Johnny, and I 'spect I know why."

Hearing that familiar low, gravelly drawl, John immediately straightened up, then had to laugh at himself, admitting to himself just how relieved he was to hear that voice. He turned to look up at Raul Montana, who was observing him from the back of a sturdy bay gelding.

The leather of his saddle creaked as Montana leaned forward to look more closely into John's face. After a long, silent moment, he nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's what I figured. Soon's I heard you were back in California, I knew you and Morgan was gonna throw down at some point." He sat back, shifting his weight with a slight wince, and looked past him to the prison, quiet in the dusk; and to the army camp, well-lit and becoming loud with sounds of drinking, laughing, and fighting. His observant eyes moved back to John, taking the Marshal's measure and weighing it against the enemy they faced.

Montana was an older man. His expression was unreadable as he studied his former protégé, his black eyes active beneath shaggy white eyebrows. His face and hands were lined and weathered to the color of aged cedarwood. His beard and hair – both trimmed close – were also white. He was not a tall man. He was a bit stocky, but powerful, and he moved with an agility and energy that belied his age as he dismounted to stand beside John. "Two companies coming, I hear. All for that sickly bunch down there."

"Yep." John nodded.

"You mean to get in the way, do you, Johnny?"

"Yep."

"You know Deputy Marshal Neagle has been locked up on charges of murder for nigh on two years now in this fine State of California, while the State District Attorneys appeal the order to release him. They drag it out long enough Dave'll die of old age in prison before they get a chance to hang him. And that was for killing a man who was trying to kill the Supreme Court Judge he'd been assigned to protect." Montana looked sidelong up at John, his affection and worry for him showing briefly. "But **_this_** , Johnny - you know the Governor's going to have you locked up and prosecuted – if Morgan doesn't find a way to kill you first."

"Yes. I know."

Montana stood thoughtfully beside him, both men now looking out over the prison camp. After a moment, Montana shrugged. "You're the boss. By the way, I hear congratulations are in order. What does your new wife think about all this?"

John took a deep breath in, let it out with a groan, and raked a hand through his hair. "Dammit, Raul –"

"You weren't planning on this."

He shook his head, the longing and worry plain on his face. "And I got these kids with me. Two of 'em are down in that camp."

"Your friend Moshe there filled me in on what brought you up this way, and the trouble you come upon since." He nodded toward the camp. "So, the lady doctor is there – and that cowboy who was **_just_** in prison himself for assassinating a bunch of sheriff's deputies. I know, I know –" Montana raised a hand as John started to argue. "Just sayin' – 'cause I'm sure Morgan will be sayin' it too. Just gives him another reason to skip over the talkin' and go right to the shootin'." He saw the pained look on John's face and shifted the topic. "I tell ya, Johnny, I'd like to get my hands on that black tree injun fella myself."

"Why, are the raids that bad?"

"Yes 'n no. Past couple days it's really been bad. Different. Always used to be for some _reason_ , something a person could understand. Food, supplies, or getting people away from the Indian-brokers and the soldiers. But lately it's turned into something else. Murder. Rape. Burning down homes with the families inside. Burning crops. Slaughtering horses and livestock just for the blood and scare of it."

John turned to look at the older man. "So Peale wasn't exaggerating, then. You think this is that Black Oak bunch?"

Montana shook his head. "Not his style. I been tracking Teleli since he became a fugitive. This is someone wanting me to **_think_** it's him. Someone who wants to drum up a big local welcome for Colonel Morgan and those two companies of soldiers, coming to protect the homesteaders. **_I_** want to find Teleli so they can't use him as an excuse to kill any and all Indians they choose." He clapped a warm arm over John's back, and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "Chin up, Johnny boy. We got your back. Nice pair of recruits you sent along to me, by the way. I know their Pa – he's a fine man, yes indeed. Raised 'em right, it seems. Now – I hear your excellent wife is on her way. Haven't had the pleasure of Victoria's company in many years. I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

 _And, when the stream_  
 _Which overflowed the soul was passed away,_  
 _A consciousness remained that it had left,_  
 _Deposited upon the silent shore_  
 _Of memory, images and precious thoughts,_  
 _That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed._

 _William Wordsworth, "The Churchyard Among the Mountains"_

* * *

"Not all of us think you're a good omen, White boy."

Heath slowly straightened up, uncomfortably aware as he moved that the burning ache of his body seemed also to be rising like a full moon tide. The salve the Rivka had used last night had been helpful, but the effect was just about worn off now. The pain that smoldered across his back; the lines of fire that wound around his chest and down his right arm and leg; it had been rekindling unnoticed beneath the consuming events of the day. Now it all flickered and spread into steady flames, as the sun set behind the group of Miwok men who had come to corner him.

 _Stop running for one second and the forest fire catches right up with you,_ Heath thought, holding his breath for a moment to keep from giving voice to the wave of pain, and frustration, and fear, and just plain old **_tiredness_** that was breaking over him. _A good omen? Who would possibly think I'm a good omen?_

He considered the five men confronting him in a threatening semicircle. The speaker was a big man, muscular still, older than the others. None of the men looked well, but they were vigorous compared to most everyone else in the camp. Malnourished and worn out, still Heath could see they were more beaten down in their souls than in their bodies – any future had moved out of sight for them. All they felt was the misery of the moment. Heath knew that feeling. He thought he could weep with grief for these men, if he was in a position to let his guard down, but that was certainly not his position right now. For all that these men had his compassion, they might still try to kill him, and then he'd never get the well working. He figured that would have to be his argument if he needed to convince these boys to let him live.

"Don't know about omens. I'm just trying to help."

" ** _Help_**? You're **_cursed_** , White boy," the big man spat back.

Heath felt the words as if he'd been punched in the stomach; momentarily breathless, he took a step backward. His heart was pounding in his throat, and he had a bizarre, urgent desire to beg the man not to speak. _Don't say it, don't say it, I don't want to hear –_

"I was there, White boy. You were cursed when we found you in the river. Should've left you there, but we brought you back to the village. **_You_** called it all down on us. The scalp hunters never attacked Sutamasina before. There was no gold there. But then we brought you. They burned down our village and chased us up into the mountains, and your curse had never left us. We have never had a home again. **_Never_**." He moved closer, the other men following. He'd had a faraway look, at first, but now his anguished eyes came to focus ferociously on Heath as he advanced, avidly latching onto to the belief that he had found, finally, a tangible target for his rage and loss. "Your own people didn't want you. They left you behind. Papati should have known then what to do with you. **_We_** knew. But it was too late. Your curse has never left us. The only way to end the curse is to kill the one who sent it."

 ** _You_** _called it all down on us. Your own people didn't want you._ Words to explain what he was trying to do with the well water had flown far out of his reach; Heath now was just struggling to breathe like he wasn't drowning; he was focused on keeping his eyes open, _here, now,_ desperately gripping that silver thread of time and counting off seconds to make sure that one followed the next, one after the next, one after the next, _four, five, six_ –

 _You're cursed._

\- _seven, eight –_

He forced himself to speak. "Wait. Wait –" he managed, as he backed up a few more steps. "Look – we found water. Clean water. Go see for yourselves. I can – I can get it up out of the well, just let me try –" Hands grabbed him. Their eyes held so much hopeless pain, Heath felt he was sinking in it; he could barely bring himself to fight back. _I have to. Rivka is here, and these people need water, I have to -_

"Notaku!" It was Haja. Her voice rang out across the gritty farmyard, and the effect was immediate; the men moved back, releasing Heath so abruptly that he almost fell to the ground. He managed to stay on his feet, grimacing in pain at the movement. Haja's unintelligible words washed over him as she chastised Notaku and the other men. Her tone was firm yet somehow still conveyed affection and understanding; the men, respectful but emphatic, spoke their piece. Heath wished he knew what they were saying. She turned to face him. The men remained, standing behind her. Heath stood, waiting on her decision, wondering if he now had another war on his hands.

"I have explained to my cousin and these men of his wife's family, that you speak the truth about the water. I also explained to them that your woman has excellent healing skills and has already done much to ease our suffering. I know still many will die. Much of what has been set in motion, no medicine can stop now, but we can make them comfortable who we cannot save, and we may be able to help others and keep more from getting sick. She has explained much to me, and I see wisdom in her. She has also told me more about what you are trying to do. Notaku understands now that if he will not help you – though he understands it is my wish that he help you – **_if_** he will not help, he and his marriage-kin are at least not to harm you in any way." She turned to look up at Notaku with these words, and he nodded reluctantly. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek and murmured something in Miwok. Tears came up in his eyes, and he turned and left with the other men.

"I told him to go to his wife. Rivka is caring for her in the barn. She is very sick. I hope she will live – she was quite strong and healthy before the spotted fever caught her."

Heath watched them walk away. He took a deep breath. "Thank you."

"You would do the same for me." She came closer, studying his face.

Heath began to feel unaccountably anxious. "I'd – I'd better get back to the well, I have to find some –" He dearly wanted to run away from her before she could say anything else, though he had no idea why.

"You took the name of Barkley – became part of that family, yes?"

Heath nodded, fidgeting as he looked over his shoulder toward the well house. His heart was racing again. _Why does she care who my family is?_

"But Rivka told me that was only a year and a half ago? I didn't understand – but I didn't want to ask her more questions. I just was wondering, why now, when you're already a man? Why not then? Why wouldn't they –"

"Me'weh, come see what we found! Me'weh!" A small herd of children were barreling down on them, all talking at once. Haja smiled to see how kind Heath was with the children, and how his presence as the embodiment of their squirrel hero had energized and animated them in a way she hadn't seen in a long time.

She watched as the children led Heath away, chattering to him about pipes they had found. He seemed inordinately relieved to be called away. He had been _very_ uncomfortable when she asked him about the Barkley family, she mused. He had seemed frightened; in fact, she saw more fear in him with her questions than she did when Notaku was threatening to kill him. That was odd. _Maybe he was ashamed that they did not take him when he was little? He probably has been hiding that fact all his life. I won't bother him with it now, it's not important. Maybe I'll ask Rivka instead._ She looked up toward the hilltop where she knew Husu was camped with Teleli's family and the people who were protecting them. _Husu, thank you for all the acorns you have planted in our village with your stories, all these years. They feed our hearts and our children's hearts._

Heath hurried back to the well house, listening to four or five children talking simultaneously. He was picturing the pipes they had discovered, and was already planning how he would use them to rig up a rope pump. In another part of his mind, he was preparing himself for the daunting task of climbing down into the well to assemble the pump; he was hoping like hell he could get the job done without losing his grip on himself.

He had a lot to figure out – they needed a means of water collection once the pump was working, a filtering system, a clean storage container – and first thing tomorrow he'd be digging latrines, for sure. He doggedly turned his attention back to these things, again and again, but Haja's puzzled expression kept intruding.

 _Why not then? Why wouldn't they –_

 _Why wouldn't they **what**? _

_You're cursed. Your own people didn't want you._

He felt little hands gripping his fingers and pulling him forward. Heath focused on that, on them, on their voices, their faces, their energy and hope and need. _Water. These kids need water. That's all I need to think about right now._


	30. Chapter 29 - Thou Art With Me

Audra moved toward the peddler's wagon, blinking the tears of emotion from her eyes as she saw Peter put his arms around the black mare's neck. His crutches fell forgotten to the ground beside him. His face was buried in her mane, and Nox, standing quietly for him, swung her big head around to lip at his hair and breathe in his familiar scent. A moment later, Peter began to sag against her, and Audra broke into a run, worried that he would fall to the ground. Moshe was already beside him, however, supporting him from one side with an arm around his back and handing him a crutch to lean on for the other side. Peter reluctantly let go of Nox, though he clearly was shaking and exhausted just from the effort of standing for those few minutes. His face was streaked with tears. Moshe helped him sit on the tailgate of the wagon, and Nox followed, staying close; she dropped her head down next to his, and he stroked her face and murmured to her.

Audra looked to Moshe for guidance, and he nodded toward Peter, encouraging her. She knelt so she was at eye level.

"Peter? I'm Audra Barkley. I've been taking care of Nox. I'm so glad we found you. I'm so happy to meet you finally. I've been wanting for months to find you and Ilsa, ever since Hannah told us about you. I'm so sorry for what you've been through."

He smiled gently at her, though he still had tears in his eyes. "Moshe told me about you. Thank you. Thank you very much. You know Hannah? She was so kind to us. We should have listened to her…" Painful memory furrowed his brow, as he remembered leaving the Negro woman's cabin, remembered her nearly begging them to stay, to stay out of sight. He brought his gaze back to Audra. His English was faintly accented, the melodious tenor of his voice roughened with fatigue. "And Ilsa? Do you have news of her, any idea where she may be?" The emotion that overcame Peter just from the act of asking about his missing wife looked to be enough to finish him for the night; he was short of breath and starting to sweat, and to Audra he looked like he was about to pass out. He swayed, and Moshe reached out to steady him.

"Dr. Robinson tells me he's had quite the time keeping this poor young man from dragging himself up into the mountains after Ilsa, even though he lost a leg from his injuries and almost that arm too. He lost a lot of blood, and somewhere in there he had a bout of pneumonia that nearly killed him. So he's not trekking anywhere anytime soon. _Du verstehst, mein Junge Freund?"_ He directed this last in German to Peter. _You understand, my young friend?_

Peter nodded, his head and shoulders starting to droop. " _Ja, ich verstehen,_ Moshe." He met the older man's eyes and seemed to take comfort there. Moshe put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Audra marveled at the connection that seemed to have grown between these two men in the space of a day, and found herself deeply grateful for it, as both of them were in need of company and affection and the support of family, surrogate or otherwise.

Moshe guessed her thoughts. "We have a few things in common, Peter and I, yes? Even we discovered his violin instructor in New York was a former student of mine. So we are related, in a way." He grew more serious and knelt down himself so he could look into Peter's face. "Peter, we will find her. If she is out there to be found, these people will find her. Right now, though, you must rest."

Peter nodded, seeming too fatigued now to speak. A wavy mop of brown hair fell over his face and accentuated the pallor of his skin. His eyes were a deep dark blue; they were shadowed and sunken, his face clearly thinner than would be normal even for his slender build. He laid his cheek against Nox' head again and echoed Moshe's words in a faint whisper, while Nox' ears turned and moved and listened intently. _We will find her. We will find her –_ then, with a faint smile and nod of thanks to Audra, he allowed Moshe to help him up into the covered wagon to lie down.

When Moshe returned, Audra was still there, replacing Nox' halter and humming to her. She smiled warmly at Moshe. He returned the smile, then raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking just past Audra's shoulder. She turned to see Husu, barely visible now in the dusk.

"Good evening, young man," Moshe said pleasantly. Husu stepped into the light of the wagon's lantern.

"Husu, this is Moshe. He's a wonderful musician. He helped us find Peter. Now we need to find Ilsa." She turned back to Moshe. "Moshe, this is Husu. He is Miwok, from the village of Sutamasina." She pointed up into the mountains. "He –" she stopped, unsure of how to summarize the convoluted history of how Husu and his sister-in-law and niece and nephew came to be in their camp. "He is – I'm not sure how best to explain."

"Did these good people give you refuge from the soldiers?" Moshe asked. That was something he certainly understood.

"Yes," Husu said. "Though we discovered after they sheltered us that my family and this Barkley family have been connected in the past. It is a complicated story – I think that is why Audra is having trouble. It is hard to know where the story – or the telling of the story – should begin." He stopped, an understanding coming clear to him. _She didn't know about the night of the burning, so long ago. She would have been very young, younger than me, and clearly the story of our village has not been told as part of their family's history. She thinks the path of the Barkleys and of Me'weh crossed only a year and a half ago. That explains why she didn't understand me. She doesn't know. Me'weh doesn't know. The older brothers, though – do **they** know? _

Husu was staring at Audra as he thought this through, and then realized he must be making her uncomfortable with his silence. He decided he would not talk of that history any further with her – it was not his place to reveal their family stories – or secrets, if secrets they were. "I am sorry. I was thinking of something. I came to listen because I heard the boy Peter speak of his wife." Husu glanced over his shoulder as John, Raul, and Sean now joined them. He continued quietly, not wanting to disturb Peter's rest, turning to address himself to the marshals. "I want to help you find her. I can see the hope of finding his wife is what has kept him alive through terrible injuries and illness. I believe the woman my brother has hidden in the mountains must be Ilsa. It must be her." He looked now at Montana, offering the lawman his fear, and hope, and an honest plea for mercy. "I know I would be helping you also find my brother Teleli. I heard your words, Marshal. These terrible crimes you describe, these are not my brother. I know it. He raids for food, for things his people need. He is not a killer and a rapist. But these awful things will be blamed on him, and if you do not bring him in, Marshal, these soldiers will kill him, and who knows how many others."

Montana nodded gravely, his thumbs in his gun belt. "Son, you understand that if I bring him in, he might still be charged with capital crimes. He might be put to death anyway."

"At least then he'd have a chance to – to –"

"Defend himself?" Audra suggested.

"Yes. Defend himself. And as you said, Marshal, if you have him, the soldiers can't use him as an excuse to kill whatever Indians they want, yes?"

Montana grunted agreement. His eyes, as they studied Husu, were sympathetic, despite his gruff demeanor. He glanced at John and their new young Deputy, who was following everything closely. "Mercenaries like these don't need much of an excuse to kill who they want. But that don't mean we aim to make it easy for 'em. Know I'd feel better if I had Teleli safe in my jail – though I doubt he'd agree with me."

There was a silence as the unlikely group considered this and wondered what tomorrow would bring. The restless breeze that had been dancing around them all evening abruptly faded, and the bubbling sound of the creek at the foot of their hill came to them clearly in the sudden quiet. John started to speak, intending to recommend they all turn in early, when he was interrupted by a sound of cheering from down below in the camp.

 _Cheering_?

As one, the five of them hurried to their vantage point that overlooked the prison camp. As before, when they had heard laughter, John found himself anxious and praying that such an unexpected sound boded well, and didn't signify some sort of malign celebration.

They could see light near the back of what had been the house. It appeared to be coming from one of the lanterns Heath and Rivka had packed in. There were other small sources of light, and John wondered whether they had rigged up some makeshift lamps with the oil they had brought. John made a mental note to get more such supplies down to them first thing in the morning. People were clustered around what looked like a heap of rubble at the back of the house. There was a creaking noise and what looked like a boy pulling steadily on a pulley – and another cheer went up.

"What the devil are they doin' down there in the dark?" Montana wondered.

Audra was peering at the pile of rubble. One of the lanterns came in closer to the center of the activity, and she could for a moment see some detail. "I think there's a well there! I can see a black hole inside that ring of stones – and there's a spout – and a funnel of some sort – and –" She suddenly laughed. "There's water! They're collecting water. It's coming out of that spout. Oh, I see, that's not a funnel, it's a cloth – maybe that's to filter the water?"

The sound of cheering came again, and singing, and soon a spontaneous circle dance had commenced with the well and the crumbled well house as its center.

"Where's Heath, I wonder?" Audra said, her eyes searching for a glimpse of him or Rivka.

John had been wondering this himself. If he wasn't standing right there at the well head, then it was pretty clear to John where Heath was, and his worry now took a new direction.

Over the past months, John had made the acquaintance of many, if not most, of Heath's nightmares. It was clear that being blinded or shut up in a small black space – or both – were things that had very bad associations for Heath, and were highly likely to send him into a panic. John reckoned that climbing down into the bottom of a fifty-foot well had to be torture for Heath on some level – and he was pretty sure that was exactly where the boy was right then. He prayed Heath had found some way to make it easier on himself, because John knew: If that's what had to be done to get water to those imprisoned people, Heath would do it, torture or not.

* * *

… _he leadeth me beside the still waters –_

As he approached the well opening with three coils of rope on one shoulder and a satchel of tools hanging over the other, Heath was already noticing the tell-tale signs of anxiety.

… _though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art –_

He found himself reciting what he could remember of a psalm Rachael had him memorize once. The repetition was a distraction; it was a happy memory; and it kept his feet moving forward, though he doubted it was going to carry him all the way through.

… _for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they – they comfort -_

After all, he was still topside right now, on ground level, out in the open with the rest of the world.

… _they comfort me -_

His chest felt tight, the very air he breathed felt thick and inadequate, and he was starting to feel queasy and off-balance. He was going to have to come up with something better if he was going to get this job done.

… _thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me…thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies…my cup runneth over_ –

That part made him laugh. _Definitely here in the presence of enemies,_ he thought, as he eyed the mounted guards making their slow circuit beyond the barbed wire. One soldier noticed Heath looking, and decided to take offense. He drew his horse to a halt. Staring down at Heath he deliberately, leisurely, adjusted the carrying angle of his rifle to horizontal; bringing the sights to bear directly on Heath he let the prisoner take a good, long look down the black hole of the barrel. For a long moment, he held that position, a smile on his face, a distant look in his eyes, his finger gently stroking the trigger of his weapon.

Heath swallowed, his throat dry and gritty as dirt. He stared back at the soldier.

 _Back off, Heath_ , he ordered himself. _Back off. Look away. BACK OFF._

Rage was drumming louder every second that soldier smiled, and Heath was suddenly terrified that he was going to get himself shot by some stupid mercenary kid for no good reason. He knew the feelings of panic were laying him open to this, knew it all was making him angry, knew he wanted to rip that smiling guard's head off, make him pay for all the times Heath had been left to face the violence of laughing, vicious men.

The soldier's smile widened; he raised his eyebrows as if to say: _Really, inmate? Please. Go ahead._

That smile. He remembered Mexico. Chavez had that smile.

 _Eat your dinner, señor - or I will have my men feed it to you_.

He felt his hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his side.

 _Back **off** , Heath, for God's sake, don't be an idiot_ – He cast about again for the psalm, a distraction, something, _**anything** _to help him disengage from this pointless expression of anger. Jarrod could help him, he knew. He tried to think of Jarrod, tried to picture him standing there and hear the sound of his voice - but for some reason, what came to him instead was a foggy memory of pine trees and rain, and a fragment of verse from Shakespeare that Heath had come across last year in his brother's library. Jarrod had read it out loud, told him what the play was about.

 _Full fathom five thy father lies_.

The reason the lines had originally caught his eye was clear, of course, it being about missing fathers. Why it was coming to him now, he had no idea. But he could hear Jarrod's voice.

… _of his bones are coral made;_

 _Those are pearls that were his eyes:_

In any case, the odd memory and the odd little rhyme did serve their purpose. Puzzled, and distracted, Heath managed to drop his eyes from the soldier and step back from the confrontation. He was shaking with nerves and anger, still, but at least he wasn't charging into rifle fire like a rabid dog.

 _Cut it **out**. Thoughts like that are **not** helping._

Frustrated and feeling a little desperate, Heath stopped where he was and took a deep breath. Tried to start over. Tried to banish thoughts of rabid dogs and buried fathers.

 _Nothing of him that doth fade_

 _But doth suffer a sea-change_

 _Into something rich and strange._

 _Nothing of him -_

"Me'weh, can I go with you?"

Surprised, Heath looked around to see Malila reaching up to hold his hand. He knelt down to her. "Go where, little one?"

"Down into the well. I like dark cozy places like that, and I can climb really well. Maybe I can help you. I could hold a lamp. I could hold the tools and hand them to you. And I'm little, I wouldn't be in the way. You know it would be better to have extra hands to help, and I really really want to go down with you and see, please, please, Me'weh? Please? You could put me on a rope if you were worried, they could pull me back up easy 'cause I'm little."

He looked at her, speechless, and then had to laugh. "You know, you're right? You really could help. But only if your Mama says OK and we have you in a harness on a rope like you said. And you know what else? I'll be glad just to have your company down there, 'cause between you and me, I don't like dark cozy places at all."

"You're silly, Me'weh. It's just a hole in the ground."

 _A sea-change._

"I am silly. And you, Malila, are something rich and strange and wonderful."


	31. Chapter 30 - Sorrow's Child

_Genius is Sorrow's child, to Want allied,  
_ _Consol'd by Glory and sustained by Pride;  
_ _Unknown – unfelt – unshelter'd – uncaress'd –  
_ _In walks of life where worldly passions rest._

 _Sarah Wentworth Apthorp Morton (1759-1846)_

* * *

Husu watched the circle dance, swaying slightly himself as he listened to the familiar Miwok song that drifted up from the camp. Moshe stood beside him, gravely taking in his first view of the makeshift prison.

"Music," he murmured. "The barbed wire does not fence her in. She rises untouched."

Husu nodded. "It is one of our Ghost Songs. We sing it to celebrate the life that moves around and between us, whole and unharmed - and the spirit strength and love of those who have passed before us. We dance in a circle to remember that our spirits and the life of the world are joined and are not – are not cut off."

"What are the words?"

" _The snow lies there. The Milky Way lies there._ "

"I don't understand."

"The snow fields are in the high mountain country. Even at night when the moon rises you can see them. The snow fields gather in _Husepi -_ the water spirit- and send her down to us as a gift of life. The Milky Way, how you call that band of stars there, in our stories, is the spirit path of the dead."

"So - all joined. All connected."

"Yes."

Montana, watching the events below along with the others, tipped his head slightly to one side in puzzlement. "Don't know 'bout water spirits and milky ways – what **_I'd_** like to know is how the hell water is coming up outta that well without any kinda pump I'd recognize." He scowled up at John. "What'd the cowboy rig up down there, Johnny? You got any idea?"

John shook his head, still studying what he could see of the camp in the darkness. "Nope. Not a clue. Sure would like to get my eyes on the boy, though."

They all turned then as the sound of a horse came to them, approaching rapidly from the direction of Sonora. Sean, clearly expecting this arrival, raised a lantern to hail the rider and direct him into their camp.

"That's Jed," Montana offered in response to John's questioning look. "Kid's a helluva rider. I swear he can see in the dark. He's like a one-man pony express and wire service. Don't say much, though."

Jed pulled up at the edge of the campsite and hopped down. He gave Sean a quick grin and pat on the shoulder in greeting, then wordlessly delivered a handful of messages to the two marshals. Neither he nor his horse seemed in the least bit winded. Audra offered him hospitality nonetheless, and John asked the young man to stay a moment while he and Montana reviewed the information they had received.

John soon looked around at the group, who were all listening expectantly. "Well, we've got some good news. Jed, I have a few more errands for you tonight, if you're up to it."

Jed nodded pleasantly, touching the brim of his hat in a casual salute that reminded Audra of Heath. It made her suddenly a bit homesick and aching for more peaceful times riding the ranch with her brothers.

"As for the rest of us," John continued, "we've got some work to do. Things are moving fast, looks like – going to take advantage of that as much as we can."

* * *

A low chanting song floated down into the darkness of the well and wove itself into the sound of dripping water. Heath tipped his head back against the cool dampness of the dirt wall and squinted up at the dim, flickering circle of light far above him. The mouth of the well seemed to move and shift and change shape as lanterns above came and went.

 _There was blue sky, for a minute, I remember - a little piece of blue sky, far and high and drifting - small and smaller, going, gone and the black came in and filled everything. These mountains – I thought they could take in all of this in me, swallow it up and heal it over. Just bury me down here, Mama. I don't want you to cry_

 _and I don't think I'll ever be big enough_

 _Lightning, but no light. Nothing to see. Staring up at nothing._

 _Falling._

He flinched and looked away, feeling suddenly sick. He braced himself against the side of the well and waited for the vertigo to pass. He rubbed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and turned his attention back to the little girl who truly seemed to **_enjoy_** being down here in the dark. She was looking up too, ready now to go join the singing and dancing. She sat on a small plank tied to the end of the rope, where she'd been as contented as a kid on a park swing, happily holding a small lamp and handing Heath tools as he assembled the lower end of the pump. He had fed a length of knotted rope down through the pipe and back up to a pulley above the well. When they began turning the wheel at the top, Heath and Malila watched anxiously to see that the rope kept moving smoothly through the pipe. They heard the celebration when water began trickling from the spout way up above, and Malila had grinned and whooped a cheer that had echoed up the well shaft and made Heath laugh out loud.

"Alright, little one, time for you to go sing and dance and get to bed."

Her smile was brilliant in the lamplit dark. She reached out to pat his face. "You are very dirty, Me'weh. You come up after me and dance too."

"I will. You hold on tight now, y'hear? Tight. No foolin' around till you climb out the top."

"OK, Me'weh." She dutifully wrapped her fists around the rope.

He whistled up to the people working the pump up above, and Malila giggled as the rope moved and she gradually ascended to the surface. She was already calling up to the other children to tell them about her adventure. The shaft here at the level of the water was narrow, and Heath could work and even climb up and down fairly easily just by bracing himself against the walls. He could only ascend so far, though. Another ten to fifteen feet up and it became too wide for him to do that safely or easily. He was going to have to wait until Malila got back to the top, and then they'd send the rope back down to him – the rest of what line he had brought in had been used for the pump. And so he watched her go, marveling at her buoyant spirit, and willingly trying to hold that lightness in his mind to keep him steady now that he was down there alone without a rope to climb back up.

 _Alive – I'm still alive._

 _Alive, Yankee boy? Yes._ _Alive and cursed. Might as well just stay down here with me._

Heath groaned under his breath. _God -_

There it was, that southern voice like warm honey. Heath had known he'd come visiting down here. That voice loved the black places; had loved when Heath couldn't see, couldn't get away, and couldn't know, week after week after week, what he would do to him next, or when, or why - or whether he might just whisper to him in the dark.

That voice was always there, always waiting to welcome him to the lowest places in his soul; sweetly to reassure him: _Yes, Yankee boy. Yes. You were right all along. There **is** no hope. There's no point. This **is** where you belong_.

That voice – **_damn_** _that voice –_

Heath slammed his fist against the wall, once, twice, and then again and again until the pain gave him something to hold on to and reminded him where he was. He let his breath out in a sob and looked up to where Malila had disappeared from view.

 _You're silly, Me'weh. It's just a hole in the ground._

 _It's only been a few minutes. Settle down. Maybe I **am** hopeless. Maybe this **is** where I belong. **I don't care**. I can still work. I can still do something to help. The pump is bringing them water, and I have ditches to dig, and louse-infested clothes and blankets to either clean or burn. I'll help Rivka with her patients, and soon they'll be bringing us food and more supplies from the ranch. They'll need blankets, and clothes. I can still work - _

* * *

Outside the barbed wire fence, the soldiers' night shift complement had been reduced to two men on horseback, because any Indians with enough energy to cause any kind of trouble at all seemed to be busy working on something in and around that heap of a farmstead. The rest of the Indians were busy dying. The half-moon had set, and the stars were blazing in a dark sky. The two guards paced slowly back and forth on their mounts on opposite sides of the camp, only intermittently keeping each other in view.

The guard covering the western, downhill side of the camp noticed his junior counterpart slumping in the saddle and wondered if he was falling asleep. It occurred to him that he might win some points with his lieutenant, if he was seen to be riding herd on the lazy recruit. He nudged his horse to go investigate.

Strangely, when he rounded the fence to the eastern side, his partner was nowhere in sight. He called out for him once, then thought better of raising a ruckus just yet – what if those Indians thought the fence was unguarded? He proceeded at a cautious trot, now out of sight of the army encampment, as he passed behind the barn. Two dark shapes suddenly materialized next to his horse as if they had risen up out of the ground, one taking the reins, the other emphatically pushing the muzzle of a gun into his ribs. He froze, speechless.

"Easy, soldier," ordered a gruff, muffled voice. "Get down. Face down on the ground. We got your partner. He's fine." His hands were efficiently tied, his mouth just as efficiently gagged, and the masked men hustled him off into the dark.


	32. Chapter 31 - Surfacing

_Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom._

 _Thomas Jefferson_

* * *

 ** _Outside Sonora, California, past midnight, December 2, 1874_**

"Head's up – look out below - !" Rivka's voice echoed down the well.

Heath pressed himself against the side of the well and watched the rope fall down from above like a wet, dirty blessing from heaven. He was so relieved to hear Rivka's voice he was almost embarrassed to admit it to himself. He reached underwater to make one more quick check of the pulley system, then he grabbed the rope, set his eyes on the dim lamplight far above, and started up.

It was not an easy climb back up to the surface. There was little in the way of hand and footholds. Much of the ascent was just him bracing his muddy boots on the wall and pulling himself up the rope. He was cold, and wet, and his hands were numb inside his leather gloves. He was filthy, and his back and arms were so sore he felt as if he'd been flogged all over again. Rivka stayed at the top and talked to him, teased him some, and promised him food and water once he made it back up to the surface. He had to stop, every once in a while, to rest his burning muscles and catch his breath, but finally he got an arm over the lip of the opening and many hands reached to pull him forward onto solid ground. He rolled over onto his back with a groan and stared up at the sky, panting with the exertion.

"Boy…howdy…..that felt like….a hundred miles. A hundred cold…wet…miles. Uphill. In…the mud. With a…with a load…of rocks on…on my back."

Rivka was beside him. She hugged him tight, and gave him a good, long, kiss. She was making him dizzy, not to mention making him wish that they were alone in a tent somewhere. He started to put his arms around her, but then stopped, realizing how muddy his hands were. She grinned down at him. "You did it, Heath! Look."

She pointed to where a small line of Indians with a variety of containers were forming a line to bring water into the camp. Haja was directing traffic, sending the first drinks to the sick and the very young. Rivka hugged him again. "You did it. And you're filthy. And I love you."

He looked up at her, his smile a brilliant flash in the mud that covered his face. "I love you, Rivka. And boy are you ever a sight for sore eyes."

"Come have a drink of water and a little something to eat, love, and then I badly need your help in the barn." He sat up, and she saw his gaze drawn back to the well, saw the echoes of what he had been feeling. She studied him silently for a second or two, then spoke for his ears alone. "He's dead and gone. You just leave the demon down there in the dark, Heath. You stay here with us."

Still staring at the dark hole in the ground, his eyes narrowed slightly in what might have been a frown, or a wince of pain, but then he appeared to shake it off. The smell of cool, wet dirt – he remembered Hadassah sitting beside him in the root cellar, talking in her low, calm voice; her arm around him, steadying him as a nightmare would shake him in its passing. He'd been fifteen years old. _Fifteen. The older I get, the younger that beat-up soldier boy looks to me._ He turned back to Rivka, a smile gradually returning to his face. _Reckon I'll keep having to fetch that kid up out of the dark – seems there ain't no way of knowin' when that job will ever be done. Might be the rest of my life I'll be fightin' to keep him here with me._

 _So be it._

"That's just what your Mama used to say to me, darlin'. And there's no place I'd rather be than to stay with you."

There came in that moment a noise and a quiet commotion near the gate; sounds of horses and wagons, but little light. Several of the Indian men called to each other anxiously in Miwok, and they could hear the creak of the stockade gate opening.

"What is this now?" Worried, Rivka and Heath both stood and started toward the front of the camp.

* * *

Lanterns and the sound of horses and wagon wheels were approaching up the northwest trail. As he watched them draw closer, John allowed himself to observe and acknowledge the dizzying array of emotions that were contending for his attention. Pretty soon, he'd have to put most of that kind of thinking aside, as he might well be walking into a war by sunup. For right now, though, he let it all flow through him like a broken down dam.

These were the two buckboards coming from the ranch; Victoria would be driving one, and either Jarrod or Nick driving the other, he expected. They had sent word that everything having been prepared by sundown, and dinner eaten, no one could sleep; and so, given the critical situation and the clear, favorable weather, they unanimously decided to get rolling to Sonora immediately.

John felt a warm swell of pride and admiration for this bold, **_heroic_** woman he had married. He would not be in the least surprised to hear that it was Victoria who urged her boys forward into this nighttime excursion. She could be as analytical as Jarrod – it occurred to John that Victoria would be formidable as an attorney – and she truly was decisive, more so than her oldest son. Nick could be even more decisive, though John was more inclined to consider Nick somewhat impulsive; he had a huge, warm heart, but he was not so thoughtful as his mother, and he was more volatile. To John's mind, Victoria balanced all these qualities admirably.

Love and pride he felt, yes – and now worry, and guilt. They'd been married just over a week, and here he was dragging her out into this messy confrontation and putting both his career and possibly his life on the line. It hardly seemed fair, and he wouldn't blame her if she arrived here furious with him. Furious or not, though, she was here. And he needed her. Lord have mercy, did he need her. He admitted this fully to himself as he followed the lantern light of the approaching wagons with serious eyes.

It was not just the material and strategic assistance she had already provided, which was substantial – she had brokered the letter of endorsement from Dr. Logan, for example; she was arriving with more food and supplies than these Indians had seen in months; and she had already set up a transfer of funds to the bank in Sonora so she could continue to route support to the Indians and to John's gathering team. What she had done already to help was undeniably substantial - and critical.

Also undeniable was just how relieved he felt seeing her approach.

 _Oh, Victoria, I don't know just how bad this is going to be or where I'm going to end up when the dust settles. There are going to be some hard choices to make. I want to do the right thing. My family now is not just my daughter Grace. My family is you. My life has changed, and I should have known this war would come upon me as quickly as it did; I think I know what I have to do, but I need your love and wisdom and courage. I need you to help me see my way through it, help me find the right path along this razor's edge._

All this was in his mind and obvious in his eyes when the two teams of horses pulled up and Victoria stepped down into his arms. She looked tired and dusty – didn't they all? – but she was unutterably beautiful to him. He hugged her close and long. Turning his face into the softness of her hair, he whispered, "Victoria, thank you, thank you, thank you…"

She returned his embrace fervently, showing not the slightest inclination to disengage. "I missed you so much," she murmured. She felt his lean, warm body against hers and thought about how much she had missed him; his gentle touch and his heated admiration; his thoughtful humor and his beautiful gray-blue-green-gold eyes; his steady presence; his honor; his seductive, slow kiss. Finally she pulled back to look up at him.

"I miss you so much. Already. I don't want to lose you –" Her voice broke slightly. " _Dammit_ , John –"

"I'm so sorry, Vee. Maybe I should have seen this coming. No, not _maybe_. I should have."

"And what difference would that have made?"

"I don't know – maybe you should have known that your husband was likely going to be out of a job before two weeks were up after the wedding."

"Can't say I mind _that_ idea, if that's all that happens. You could get started on that bee-keeping idea of yours, and I'd have you home a lot more." She studied his face. "Do you think that's how it'll end up?"

He spoke softly. "I think –" He returned her gaze, and she felt some fear at the look in his eyes. "I think that may be the best case scenario. At minimum the Governor's going to want me out, and the AG has no reason to fight him about it."

"But you think it could be worse."

"Yes."

"Such as…?"

"Lockup, just to make me sweat. Or lockup and prosecution. How bad **_that_** gets depends on how things play out here and how vindictive the Governor is. The DA's been trying for over a year to hang Neagle on charge of murder."

"John. Do you see any way to win this thing? Any way to help those poor people in that camp without sacrificing yourself?"

"I do. It's not a sure thing, but we have a chance. It'd be impossible without you."

Her chin came up, and there was that fire in her eyes, just like the very first moment John saw her, entering Judge Bentley's office ready to take on the Federal Courts, The U.S. Marshal Service, and the whole corrupt prison system to bring her son home. He'd been struck nearly speechless with admiration at the time, so much so that Jarrod would have burst out laughing had it not been for the gravity of the situation.

"John!" That was Nick.

"Over here." Nick and Jarrod appeared behind their mother in the circle of lamplight.

"Where are Heath and Rivka, are they in the camp? And where's Audra?" Victoria was now casting her eye around their hilltop campsite.

John led the three over to their campfire to get them some coffee and bring them up to date on events since they rode out several days ago. He realized that so much had happened in the past two days, they needed explanation and introductions to the whole varied group of characters that he had taken under his wing.

"Peter is sleeping in Moshe's covered wagon over there – he's still _very_ weak, was badly injured and is still recovering. That tent there we set up for a Miwok family we managed to get away from the soldiers rounding them up – two little ones and their mother Hekeke, and her brother-in-law, Husu. There's a whole story there I can fill you in on later. Husu is with Audra and Moshe over there, watching the camp. The Indians in the camp are singing and dancing, it seems, because Heath managed to rig up a pump to get them water from the well."

Nick laughed and nodded. "That's Heath all right. Can't imagine that job was any fun though."

"Here they come – Audra, darling –" Victoria hurried over to her daughter.

"Oh, Mother, there's so much to tell you about," Audra said, her emotions rising again as she felt her mother's arms come around her. "I'm OK, I'm fine," she went on, knowing her mother would hear the tears in her voice. "Really I am. It's just so terrible, what's happening to the Indians in the camp, and I'm worried for Heath and Rivka – but we found Peter, did John tell you? He was so badly hurt – and this is Moshe. He is the violinist." She spotted her brothers. "Nick! Jarrod! I'm so glad you're here –" She hugged them both, still weeping a bit, but smiling.

Moshe greeted Victoria with a formal bow over her hand and a warm glint in his eye. "It is an honor to meet you, madam. I have heard much about you."

"Really? From whom?"

"Who not?" He smiled at her surprise. "Your husband, your son and daughter, and Rivka - and of course from Marshal Montana, who rode out here with me."

"Raul? Raul is here? Of course, I should have remembered, Sonora. Where is he, that old coyote?"

John raised his eyebrows. "He's rustling up some more help for us at the moment. Coyote? Should I be jealous?"

Victoria just laughed and hugged her arm around his waist, and he couldn't help but smile down at her.

"For us, the coyote is the cleverest of spirits, the one that created the earth and stole the sun to keep us warm," Husu commented, arriving behind Audra. "Maybe you _should_ be jealous."

Jarrod and Nick turned from greeting Moshe to look at the new arrival. He was an odd sight, in this company of White people, John thought. Having spent the past six months surviving in the high country until their capture, Husu was dressed in traditional Miwok deerskins, bare-chested under the cloak he had thrown over his shoulders. The linear tattoos he had received at puberty stood out in the firelight but were distorted and cut off over his lower chest and abdomen, as the scar tissue there would not accept the inking as normal skin would. His expression was deadpan as he delivered his comment to John, but as the marshal turned to look at him, slightly alarmed, he winked and gestured reassuringly. John rolled his eyes and sighed. _Husu is quite a character,_ he thought. _Strong-hearted and smart as hell. Keeps surprising me over and over._ "Husu, c'mon over, let me introduce you."

Husu's eyes, however, had settled on Nick and Jarrod. His humorous expression faded, to be replaced by a look of somber remembrance, as he faced in the flesh the confirmation of what he had known to be true. His heart ached for the memory of that skinny White boy they had pulled from the river all those years ago. As a small child, Husu had been drawn to the injured lost one, seeing and sympathizing immediately with his fear and pain and loneliness. Even at the age of almost-five, Husu could, in a basic way, understand how terrified he would be, were he in that position, and he did the only things an almost-five-year-old could think of to help. He stayed close to the White boy, he named him, he talked to him though they couldn't understand each other – and he remained by him when all the grown-ups had left him behind to die. It would have broken Husu's heart to do otherwise. He could not have articulated this as a child, but as a young man, he understood that it would have broken his heart, and in the terrible years that followed, his spirit most likely would not have survived as it had to this point.

Husu recognized Jarrod, as he had been younger but still a mostly grown man at the time of the burning; in Nick, knowing now who he was, Husu could see in him the gangly but strong teenager who had remained impatiently mounted outside the roundhouse, but he seemed about twice that bulk now that he was full grown.

As Husu studied Jarrod, their eyes met. Husu remembered the blue. He had never really seen blue eyes up close before, and then suddenly there was Me'weh, staring around in fear and seeing nothing – at first Husu had thought the strange blue color was the reason he couldn't see. But then there came the rancher with his warning – and his son – blue eyes, all three. He had wondered then what it meant – but now he was beginning to understand.

Husu pictured the rancher father, blond hair under a hat pushed to the back of his head, gesturing urgently at Papati and then stopping abruptly when he saw Me'weh. Husu had studied the father, watched him carefully, because he felt protective of Me'weh and he could see the intense scrutiny the father now directed at the injured boy. Husu could tell Me'weh sensed it too, blind as he was – how could he not? The father had stared as though he was seeing a ghost.

What was it Audra had said to him? _We didn't know about him until a year and a half ago._

They were **_kin_**. _That_ was why they took Me'weh into their family. _That_ was the truth they didn't know until a year and a half ago. Audra's confusion at his question began to make more sense – she knew nothing of this other history. But the blue-eyed father – he had seen Me'weh, and the sight had stopped him in his tracks. The father knew. Husu was sure of it. Somewhere in his spirit, somewhere, the Barkley father knew.

 _He was dead and gone now. What of the sons? Do they know?_

"Husu –" Jarrod said. "That is your name?"

"Yes." Husu decided to open the door slightly, though not so much he couldn't back off if it seemed prudent. "My brother is Teleli. He would often translate for our grandfather Papati, when he was headman. Perhaps you knew him?"

He saw Jarrod's eyes widen and he seemed to gasp slightly. Nick, who had been watching his brother closely, now considered Husu more carefully and began for the first time to notice the burn scars over his chest. He recognized the names. Before Jarrod could organize his thoughts into speech, Nick had moved toward Husu. "You're the little boy that saved Heath from the fire?" He turned, amazed, back to Jarrod. "Jarrod – that's **_him_**? The one you were just telling me about -?" The look of shock on Jarrod's face gave Nick all the answer he needed.

And now Nick became aware that Jarrod was not the only one standing in shocked silence. Audra was first to speak. Heath had explained to her a little more about how he had been injured; about the White men that came through with a warning, and how Heath had come to be left behind; but he had spun the tale to show her how Husu had stayed with him and hidden him from the hunters. She looked at Husu now and realized that they each had held a different piece of the puzzle and only now were seeing how they fit together.

"So that's what Hekeke meant. She asked me if _our men_ had taken Heath into our home after the night of the fires, if that was how he came to be with our family. **_Our men_. **Jarrod - is this true? You and Father and Nick were there that night, in that village? You were **_there_**?" She too was reading the pain and guilt in Jarrod's expression. _Your family has been part of our village's history for many, many years_. _Dear God, that's what Hekeke meant._ Audra's voice had become shaky and hoarse; she did not want to believe what she was thinking; and she had a feeling of unreality as she spoke the words. "You were there – and you _saw_ him? You _knew_ and you left him there? Left him blind and injured with killers coming to burn down the village? That was **_Father_**? That was **_you_**?" Audra turned to her mother, overwhelmed, and saw with some relief that she too was looking stunned – at least she wasn't alone with this revelation. "Mother -?"

John was also moving to Audra's side, feeling shock himself and worried for the distress he could see in the two women. He looked at Husu, and at Jarrod and Nick, not sure if any of them could answer the question he had to ask: "Does Heath know this?"

Husu hesitated, and then shook his head. Jarrod, too, said faintly, "No, I don't think so."

"Jarrod." Victoria spoke in a low, controlled voice, keeping her eyes on her eldest son even as she put her arms around her distraught daughter. "Jarrod, please explain."


	33. Chapter 32 - Burden

_There is a determined though unseen bravery that defends itself foot by foot in the darkness against the fatal invasions of necessity and dishonesty…Life, misfortunes, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are battlefields that have their heroes._

 _Victor Hugo, "Les Misérables"_

* * *

 ** _Outside Sonora, California, past midnight, December 2, 1874_**

"Heath, what time is it?" She spoke in a strained whisper. "Who would be coming in the gate in the middle of the night?"

He hated to hear the fear in Rivka's voice as they hurried toward the slowly opening stockade gate. It made him angry. It was all so _wrong_ , that anyone should be locked up in this terrible place; even more wrong that she should feel fear while she labored with everything she had to relieve the suffering that was all around them.

"It's two forty. Four and a half hours until sunrise." That fact was about the only thing he knew for sure – he didn't know who or what was entering the camp, but he didn't think it would be anything good. He did not give voice to the rage that was boiling up in his chest; she didn't need to hear about it, and he needed to set it aside. Every bit of his attention, every nerve ending, was focused on facing whatever threat was coming in that gate.

They stopped in the yard about twenty yards away and watched it swing open. "I don't think these are soldiers," he thought out loud, "or if they are, they don't seem to be in any kind of attack formation." When he first heard the sounds at the gate, Heath's initial, worst case fear was for a standard, U.S. Cavalry-style Indian massacre: Disarm, corral, and contain the population in as small an area as possible; surround it with a mounted force of superior arms; fire at will. He admitted to himself that his skin had been humming with the expectation of such gunfire from the moment they'd stepped inside this barbed wire enclosure. What was coming in the gate now, though, looked like four loaded wagons, no lanterns, and a small handful of men, moving quickly and silently to close the gate behind them. "What the devil is this…?" Heath said, still keeping Rivka close by his side.

One of the men spotted them standing in the yard. "Heath? Is that you?"

"I'll be damned…" Heath breathed. "Frank? Yo, Sawyer, is that you?" He and Rivka hurried forward to greet the older man. Frank met them both with a hearty hug, picking Rivka bodily off the ground and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Brought you some groceries, son. Oughta last you for a little bit 'till we can get you more. Where do you want us to unload this stuff?"

Heath looked at Rivka and she shook her head slightly.

"Frank, you and your men shouldn't come all the way into the camp," Heath answered accordingly. "Don't want you all to get sick, that's not going to do anyone any good. We'll get the wagons unloaded. We've got a few folks in here that are still healthy and strong enough to help. What's the plan, though? How's John plan to keep Morgan from wiping these Indians – and us – out? You got enough people? Morgan could be coming with at least a whole company."

"He's coming with two companies, in fact, and should be here before noon tomorrow," Frank said flatly.

Heath felt a chill run over his skin. "That's a lot of guns."

"You got that right. Way more'n us, but we don't need that many if we position ourselves right – but we might only need to hold 'em off for long enough for John to come after Morgan with whatever else he's got up his sleeve. Your family's here – yeah, they didn't want to wait around either –" he said, chuckling at Heath's surprise. "They have two more wagon loads to bring down.

"Jim Roberts'll be showing up sometime soon with a good handful of men, fresh from a showdown with the Cavalry over in Nevada, down by Independence. Him and his deputies were able to hold off a full scale massacre there, set up a safe zone for the survivors, but it still don't feel like a win to him, I don't think. And Raul Montana's here – don't know if you two ever met, did you? Well, you know he's a tough old tracker. He'll be out and around with those two Thomas brothers you sent up to us – good kids, those two. There's been some nasty raids and attacks hereabouts, been blamed on rogue Indians, but Montana, he's not so sure. He's wanting to get a handle on that before Morgan can use it as an excuse to come in here guns blazin'. As for us, me and my boys came with our shovels tonight. Can't very well make a run for it with all a' these sick kids and their families, so we'll have to dig in and duke it out right here. Gonna have ourselves a nice trench system around your perimeter in the next couple hours, and gonna work on making a back door outta this place, just in case."

"You got four hours 'till sunrise, then. You better get going on that and let us take care of these supplies." He put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Boy, is it good to see you. Though maybe next time we can just meet up to go fishin'."

"Wouldn't get no argument from me on that." Frank looked Heath over critically; the young man was filthy and lame and tense as a bowstring. He turned to Rivka, who was cleaner, but clearly no less grimly engaged in the battle they were waging here. "Guess there's no point in me telling you to git, is there? I'd dearly love to give both of you a ride up and out of here. You're standing right smack in the path of a storm."

Rivka smiled. "I understand, Frank, but no. Thank you."

Frank took a deep breath and shook off the gravity of the moment. He managed a smile and put his arm around Rivka, speaking to her in the conspiratorial tones of a concerned uncle. "Now, in case you'd forgotten, Doctor, I'll remind you am also a Justice of the Peace. Like I said to Victoria, soon's you decide you want to make an honest man of this nice boy, you just say the word. I feel a bit responsible to protect his virtue, y'know."

"Frank, I would engage your services right here and now, if it were solely up to me. You have not, however, met my mother, a formidable woman in her own right. She would be **_very_** displeased if I were to get married without her presence and involvement. As would my very big, very strong twin brothers."

"She's right, y'know," Heath concurred with a grin. "Formidable. Big. Strong. All true."

"OK, OK," Frank shrugged. "The offer stands, if you change your mind. _Both_ offers." He grew serious again, scanning the terrain around the camp. "We're going to have to secure some high ground, too." He turned to go, waving to his deputy to start rounding up the others. He looked back. "You two be careful. Keep your heads down."

"You bet, Frank." He turned to Rivka. "Let's go to the barn. We can round up some people to unload this stuff so the marshals can move the wagons back out, and you needed my help there anyway."

* * *

 _I have no way and therefore want no eyes._

 _I stumbled when I saw._

 _Full oft 'tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities._

 _O dear son Edgar,_

 _The food of thy abusèd father's wrath,_

 _Might I but live to see thee in my touch,_

 _I'd say I had eyes again!_

 _William Shakespeare, "King Lear"_

* * *

 _._

"Please explain."

 _Two such simple words. I wish it were so simple,_ Jarrod thought.

Maybe it was simple and he just wasn't thinking clearly. His mind had been weighed down in an atmosphere of mourning and foreboding ever since he had that dream – no, that _memory_ – of Hannah and Heath in the wagon on its way back up to Strawberry. He felt as though he was drowning slowly in remorse, so much so it was hard for him to think clearly about it at all. And yet – he was aware that what he was feeling didn't really fit the crime, so to speak. For Nick, he had described the events as he remembered them, and Nick had responded in a way that made sense at the time: yes, he and their father had made a mistake in judgement, in taking Papati at his word that he would protect the boy. Nick understood their reasoning for leaving him there – and he pointed out that Heath would likely understand it as well. Jarrod and his father were both upset about leaving the child behind, and even more upset when they learned that the Indians had abandoned the boy too. So it wasn't like they didn't _care_ about him. So what was it? Why did he feel this way? Jarrod could barely face Audra and his mother and John as he spoke.

Pushing past the gloom that was bogging down his thoughts, Jarrod faced his family nonetheless, and recounted for them what happened that night, just as he had done for Nick – also at two thirty in the morning, he noted, in passing. Also in passing, and rather suddenly, Jarrod realized that he had been assiduously avoiding Hannah since that night of remembering. It was as though the prospect of speaking with her had become terrifying. He decided to put that disturbing thought out of his mind for right now – he'd have to deal with it, yes, but first he had to face what was happening here.

As they heard his story, the family's reactions now were much as Nick's had been. They were expressing distress, sadness in the missed opportunities, and horror at the fortunes of those violent times, just as he'd expect. Audra had gradually let go of her accusatory anger, as she heard what had happened that night, and as she heard Jarrod's sincere distress over the incident.

Her disappointment in her father – and in Jarrod, to a lesser extent – was palpable, though. The Barkley men _should_ have found a way to bring the boy out safe. It should never have come down to Hannah pulling them out of a burning building with barely a second to spare before the children were killed. Victoria clearly also felt that way. Jarrod didn't dispute their judgement. He felt burdened, guilty beyond all of Audra's and his mother's disappointment in him, trapped somehow in that gloomy, rainy, gray place and time.

 ** _Why_** _?_ Jarrod asked himself once again. _It's not like we knew who he was and deliberately left him -_

Moshe had judiciously withdrawn to his wagon when this intense family conversation began. Husu, however, remained on the periphery. His eyes were on Jarrod, as he tried to understand the burden under which this eldest Barkley son was sinking. Husu did not begrudge these two sons and their dead father some measure of guilt for not finding a way to take that helpless boy out of harm's way. Truly they should have, in Husu's view, but that was not a soul-killing failure – it was more of a human misjudgment of threats. A poor decision in a crisis. Jarrod, however, was laboring under the weight of mortal sin. Husu thought he knew why, and he wanted to help, but he hesitated. He wanted to be sure – and he knew regardless, it was possible he could do more harm than good.

Victoria made a decision and called an early halt to Jarrod's testimony on the witness stand. She pointed out to Nick and Jarrod that they'd better get moving if they were going to get the food and medical supplies down to the camp before sunrise. "We're all overwrought," she said, steering Audra toward her tent and instructing her to get some rest. "Frank should be down there by now with his men – it's best you two get in and out before sunup."

* * *

The next few hours went by quickly for Heath and Rivka. He had joined her in the barn, immediately impressed by the degree to which she had created the skeleton of a passable field hospital in the abandoned structure. Now that they had some supplies coming in, she began to stock areas designated for food (perishable and otherwise), linens, clothes, bandages, medicines and herbs, soaps, and a set of shelves for tools, instruments and containers. As piles of clean clothes and blankets arrived, she had several helpers systematically bathing the patients as thoroughly as possible, dressing them in clean clothes, and sequestering contaminated and bug-infested items in a growing pile outside the back door of the barn.

Heath had earlier directed a group of boys to a far western corner of the fenced in enclosure where he had staked out an area where they would be digging a trench for a latrine. He'd intended to be back to do that digging along with them, but it became clear that first he had to decide what to do with the bodies of the dead, the number of which were steadily increasing.

This was an urgent problem. There had been eight deaths just since they had arrived in the camp, and ten more who had died during the previous days. About half of these had been laid out in the barn – the others Heath was going to have to collect from various places around the camp where ailing families had done their best to shroud their dead at a small distance from those that were still living.

There were twelve children among the dead. The youngest was an infant only a month or two old; most appeared to be under the age of six. Four of the children had died of typhus, he could see by the rash. Several others had probably died from dysentery and flu. Two of the older children had been shot, as had three of the adults: two men and one woman. Heath tied a bandanna over his nose and mouth against the smell. With the murmured words of Rachael's psalm once again on his lips, he moved forward through the grief and horror, one moment at a time, one step at a time, one starved body at time. He collected each one – eighteen in all – and placed them as gently as he could in the back of a cart, which he planned to pull himself to the area where he would complete the burial trench.

He had decided finally on a burial area about one hundred yards due north of the latrine area, also along the western fence line. The Miwok traditionally burned their dead, along with all their possessions – in fact, grieving relatives would sometimes throw their own possessions into the fire, and would singe their hair with burning sticks from the pyre. Cremation, however, was not feasible here – fuel was in short supply and any available firewood was needed for cooking and sterilizing. After a conversation with Haja, Rivka, and two other village elders, it was decided that they would create a ritual mourning pyre with the contaminated clothes of the dead, and Heath would bring the bodies to the burial area he had identified. Before he left with his cart and his sad cargo, he washed himself, and then went to Rivka and hugged her, knowing she was feeling the loss of each and every one of these patients – and knowing that there were more such losses coming.

In the predawn dark, as he pulled his cart away from the barn and across the fields, Heath listened to the cries of screech owls and heard a pair of coyotes yelping a duet off in the hills to the south. The vapor of his breath was cloud of white mist in the cold night air. The moon had long since set, and the Milky Way spanned the sky in a brilliant swath of stars. He reached the western fence line, shouldered his tools, and set himself to digging a resting place for his eighteen silent passengers.

He swung the pickaxe in a steady, mesmerizing rhythm. He knew he was exhausted and his whole body hurt, but he labored on in a numb state of necessity. Lift, swing, chop, drag, step forward, lift, swing – all the way down the trench. Switch to the shovel, throw the dirt to the side. Back to the pickaxe.

He was deep in this task, working inside a ditch about three feet deep, when he saw someone jump down to stand in front of him. Arming the sweat from his forehead, he looked up to see one of the Miwok men who had cornered him earlier the previous day. Straightening, Heath turned slowly; three more men had silently surrounded him, regarding him with grim expressions. He glanced back toward the distant barn and farmstead. As he expected, he saw no one else nearby. Turning back to the man before him, Heath tried to think of any appeal he could make. If these men were still inclined to kill him, he realized, there wasn't going to be much he could do about it – he'd be joining the eighteen he had brought out to this burial ground.

 _How do I ask for mercy or claim to be a friend, when they believe I have brought this evil on them - when they believe that my existence is the cause, no matter my intentions, no matter what I actually do or say? Can I plead for Rivka's safety at least?_

Heath tensed as the man took a step closer, reaching into a satchel he carried strapped across his chest. Rather than a weapon, he pulled out a skin full of water from the well, and offered it to Heath. His voice was low and full of grief.

"The littlest one, there, the baby – he was my son. My daughter lies there too." He gestured to the men who had come with him, each carrying tools with which to dig. "We have all lost ones we love. We are here to help."

Heath met the man's mournful gaze and nodded sadly. Taking a deep breath, he accepted the water and handed the Indian a shovel. He was too tired and sad, really, to feel the relief; the sudden ebb of fear, in fact, was threatening to sap his energy completely. He was grateful, though, for the hand extended to him. He lifted the pickaxe, and as dawn began to light the sky behind the mountains, the five of them continued on together.


	34. Chapter 33 - Sins of the Father

_Alas, young prince!_

 _Falsehood and fraud shoot up in ev'ry soil,  
The product of all climes—Rome has its Cæsars._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

Jarrod and Nick each drove one of the loaded ranch buckboards cautiously down to the stockade gate, both keeping one eye on the rough, unlit trail ahead, and another on the still-quiet army camp up on the rise to the west.

"Good thing this bunch-a so-called soldiers are feeling lazy," Nick had commented as they set out. "Let's hope they won't notice their night shift boys are missing till after the sun's up."

Jarrod had nodded agreement, but he remained preoccupied and worried. Nick followed his older brother with his eyes as he moved to climb up in the driver's box. He could see something was brewing behind those blue eyes. This bothered him tremendously, because whatever it was that was so troubling Jarrod, it was something that he, Nick, was missing completely. He wanted to help, was ready to take on an army of demons for his brother, but how could he step in to battle beside him if he had no idea what they were fighting?

Jarrod let Nick take the lead driving the wagons down to the gate, figuring his brother would be more focused than he and less likely to lead them into a ditch in the dark. One of Sawyer's men met them at the gate with a shaded lantern and led them in to where a small group of Miwok were ferrying supplies from the yard to the barn. The darkness and the quiet, purposeful activity around them went a ways to diminish the oppressive awareness of the barbed wire around them and the death that roamed inside the camp. Their two wagons were quickly emptied, and both men were now scanning the camp, looking for either Rivka or Heath. A moment late, they saw Rivka coming toward them, a tall slim shadow hurrying across the yard from the barn.

She hugged them both, breathless, and smiling with genuine joy in seeing them. "I can't believe how quickly you travelled! The medical supplies you brought are such a blessing – and everything else – and yourselves especially. Heath should be here soon, I hope. He's working way over in the northwest corner. I'm so grateful you're here –" She waved to Haja to come over, who was distributing food to some of the healthier families who had set up small campsites around the yard. The headwoman joined them. She was clearly fatigued and recovering from her own illness, but she had been energized by the arrival of some assistance and the prospect of having something tangible she could do to help her people. She smiled as Rivka introduced her to Jarrod and Nick.

Haja gestured to the family campsites clustered around the barn. "Our village. We circle now about the sick house Rivka has made for us, and hope for healing. We used to center our village around our beautiful roundhouse, where we would dance, and eat, and talk, and bring our guests. Do you remember it?" She looked at Jarrod. "Your brother Nick wasn't yet a man, but you came into the roundhouse with your father, when you came to warn us. Do you remember how beautiful it was?"

Jarrod felt for a moment the weight of memory would be more than he could bear, but he met Haja's kind, understanding eyes, and her look invited him to shoulder it together with her. He nodded, and found voice to speak. "I do remember. It was beautiful. So solid and peaceful. I am so sorry it was lost." He looked at Rivka with an apology – or perhaps an appeal for help - in his eyes. She did not appear surprised, and he suspected that Haja and she had already connected their histories. _But did Heath know?_ He took a breath and continued. "I didn't realize until a few days ago. I had a dream – a memory – I guess you'd say I remembered in a dream." Haja nodded – this she understood well.

"It is amazing that he came to you, in the end, isn't it? Even though you left him behind that day. You and Nick did not know Me'weh was yours, then. And still he survived. He came to you by a different road, one with different trials, and different treasures. Truly you must belong to each other."

Haja's surprising words affected both men deeply. Nick, for his part, _had_ been a child then, so he could see why he didn't feel the burden of that night's decisions as Jarrod did. Nick had wrestled with his own guilt, though, for other hurtful choices he had made and actions he had taken – and not taken - regarding his half-brother. In those decisions he had been an adult who had been given clear knowledge of who Heath was to him. He didn't have the excuse of a crisis situation and ignorance of his brother's identity; and so Haja's message filled him with a huge feeling of gratitude that despite all this, he still had Heath. But now he heard Jarrod's intake of breath as though he had been struck a blow, and he turned to him, once again alarmed and worried.

"Jarrod, what **_is_** it? Will you **_please_** explain to me what the devil is wrong? What is bothering you?" The days of nameless concern for his brother, together with his fatigue and the strange, oppressive setting, overcame whatever restraint Nick had left.

"I think he knew, Nick. I think Father knew who he was." Jarrod closed his eyes. It had to be said, finally, but he could feel how this knowledge might hurt both his brothers.

" ** _What_** …?" Rivka and Nick spoke simultaneously. Haja's expression was grave as she watched Jarrod, though she showed no surprise.

Eyes still closed, Jarrod went on. "We were surprised, of course, to see a White boy there in the roundhouse. But as Father came close, it was – it was as if he had seen a ghost. I didn't think much of that at the time, given the terrible situation – whole families were at risk. I hung back in the roundhouse to try to talk to the boy, to ask him where he was from. I thought at the very least I could get a message back to his family. He started to tell me he was from Strawberry – but then he went silent, and wouldn't tell me anything more. I think he'd already learned the hard way not to draw attention to his family – had learned it was safest to stay hidden. Those were such violent, lawless times, and for a family such as his...Still, I tried a few more times. I – God forgive me – I asked him who his father was." He looked at Nick. "What I didn't tell you the other night, Nick, was that when we had reached the last village, and learned that Sutamasina hadn't kept the boy with them, Father asked me about him."

 _"You talked to the boy?"_

 _"Yes, I tried. I thought I could –"_

 _"Did he say where he's from? Or did he say who his mother is?"_

 _"He told me he was from Strawberry – but he refused to tell me anything else. I wonder how he ended up on the Tuolumne –"_

 _"Jarrod – I want you to go back and look for him. Can you do that? One of us needs to meet up with our Pinecrest supply wagon in any case, and I don't want to bring Nick back that way. It's going to be a rough ride back through – a lot of killing, I don't want your brother to see it. Can you manage it?"_

 _"Yes, Father – but – what do you want me to do if – when – I find him? Do you want me to bring him out myself?"_

 _"No, no, nothing like that. I just – I just want to know what happened, is all. But if do you find out anything else about him, son, you let me know."_

"That doesn't prove that he **_knew_** _,_ Jarrod –"

Jarrod looked his brother in the eye. "Nick, I saw his face when I told him the boy was from Strawberry. Again, I didn't think much about his reaction at the time – _I_ thought it was strange how the boy ended up down the Tuolumne, figured Father did too. But of course that information would have hit him differently. Because **_he_** knew he'd been in Strawberry in '48. He asked me if the boy had said who his **_mother_** was. Father knew, and he closed his eyes. He chose to look no further. Nick, it's been breaking my heart. We failed so terribly."

"Not you, Jarrod." Heath's rough voice was barely audible. He emerged out of the dark, a shovel in one hand, dirty, lame and worn out. He seemed to Jarrod to regarding them from a long, long distance away, as though he'd been mortally wounded and was now drifting inexorably away from them. His eyes moved from face to face. "Seems I'm the last to know." He gave a weak laugh. "Though it's been nagging at me, Jarrod - your voice - your voice kept coming into my mind, reminding me of something, something I didn't want to know – guess at least I know what it is, now." He looked exhausted, afraid, alone, and unutterably sad as he faced them. "Jarrod, don't blame yourself, please. Hannah keeps telling me, _lay aside those burdens that aren't yours to carry_. I don't want you to suffer on account of me, or 'cause of your father's weaknesses. This isn't your burden. Nick gets that. You should listen to him, he makes good sense sometimes."

Jarrod heard Heath's words and was glad for them, but the look in his brother's eyes was very unsettling, as though he was bidding them goodbye. It occurred to Jarrod, as he examined his own sense of relief, that he had been feeling a guilt and despair that truly did belong to his father, and he wondered how Tom Barkley had lived with himself, with this knowledge. The desire to avoid Hannah made much more sense to Jarrod now, and he was glad to set that aside. Now, though, Jarrod felt a different fear, as he saw that something had changed for Heath. **_Your_** _father's weaknesses,_ he'd said. Something in this revelation had opened a yawning dark rift, and his brother seemed suddenly a great distance away – this brother who, despite all the pain of his life, seemed always to be able to keep his heart open, who had held loyal to his connection with this family when he'd been under constant attack; in times of crisis; even when they had all been blind to his history and experience. Heath wasn't making eye contact with any of them, now. He was in fact backing away slightly, looking around restlessly, as if he just wanted to go back to work and stop thinking or talking about anything. Jarrod started to speak, wanting to draw him back in, but Heath interrupted him.

"These kids – I got these kids working, digging over there – I gotta go check on them –" He gestured vaguely. He started to go, but then seemed to make himself stop and look at Nick and Jarrod. "It's good you're here. Really. You're good men. Don't let any of this tell you different. You're saving a lot of lives with what you're doing, and getting' here as fast as you did." He dropped his eyes. "Give Mother my love, would you –" He backed up a few steps, then turned and began to walk away before anyone could think of what to say.

 _Truly you must belong to each other._

Nick thought that was about the truest thing he'd ever heard said, and Haja's words propelled him forward, first to shake off the surprised silence of the group. "Heath! Heath, wait. Just stop a second, boy. Wait up." He moved to catch up with him. The sun was rising, and he and Jarrod needed to get themselves and those wagons out of this camp, but he didn't want to go anywhere before he talked to his little brother.

 _And say what, exactly, Nick?_ he asked himself. _He's gotta be angry, right? He could tell me about that, blow off some steam, maybe. He's told me he never really cared about what Father knew or didn't know, though he knows it was important to us – he always says that what matters to him is us, that we're his family. But still, it's gotta hurt. This has got to hurt terribly –_

Before Nick could catch up with Heath and turn him back, there came the cry of a girl, her call piercing through the steadily brightening sky, coming from way up high.

"Me'weh! Me'weh! Yayali is coming!"

They all searched upward, looking for the girl. Heath spotted her immediately, her slight figure silhouetted on the highest ridge of the barn roof, pointing to the western horizon.

"Yayali! I see him! Me'weh, Yayali is coming!"

"Malila -!" Heath took off like a shot, running for the barn, everything forgotten in his terror for the fearless little girl who loved to climb and who had no idea about termite-eaten timbers and the hazards of rotting, weather-beaten roofs. "Stay where you are. Don't move!"


	35. Chapter 34 - Wing the Dart

_Like a young eagle who has lent his plume,  
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,  
See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart,  
Which rank corruption destines for their heart -_

 _Thomas Moore, "Corruption"_

* * *

 ** _Sunrise, Barkley Ranch, December 2, 1874_**

Hannah woke with a start and sat bolt upright, her heart racing. She stared without seeing the rough pine walls of her cabin, her hands relaxed and still on the quilt that covered her lap, her breath slow and steady as she examined the dream image in her mind. It was as vivid and clear and as undeniable as the day that was dawning outside.

"How did I not see this before? I should have seen it. I should have seen it." She could hear the flowing water of the swollen river, could see the fog moving silent and ghostly among the trees. The sky wept without ceasing, the rain falling and falling on the oak and pine; falling on the burned ruins of the village; on the skins she had fashioned into a shelter; on the brim of the rider's expensive but well-worn hat as he crouched down to see them. _Friend,_ he had said, and she could see how full up with pain he was at what he had witnessed. Something innocent in him had been wounded near unto death by what he had seen, and Hannah sensed no danger from him. He had a deep voice for such a slim young man. _His eyes were so blue_. She remembered them now. _So blue – just like my boy's. Just like Heath_.

Hannah rose from her bed to wash and dress. She needed to think this through, let this knowledge sink in and simmer a bit in her mind. She could think of no better way to do that right now that to go talk to Silas about it. Her eyes roamed over the golden foothills to the south as she pulled her wrap around her shoulders and set out to walk to the Big House. She prayed as she walked, prayed for all of the family to come home safe and well. "Good people, you are, and brave. It's a good, brave thing you're trying to do up there. God is with you, and we're here waiting for you to come home."

* * *

 ** _Sunrise, outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874_**

"Malila -! Stay where you are –" Heath was running for the barn, and Nick instinctively moved to go with him. Whatever else they needed to talk about, this was an emergency, and he was going with his brother.

Several pairs of hands stopped him, and with surprise and no small amount of annoyance he turned to see it was Jarrod and Rivka - and one of Frank Sawyer's men. "What the hell –", he fumed, trying to throw them off.

"Nick, you can't go up to that barn," Rivka explained. "Not yet. I have new typhus cases developing so rapidly I can barely keep track, and I don't want you to get sick."

"But Heath –" His eyes searched for his brother, who had moved out of sight as he reached the run down farm buildings. The heartache Rivka could hear in Nick's voice threatened her resolve, but she held firm.

"Heath would be furious with me if I let you go up there, if I let any of you get sick, and you know it."

"Besides, Mr. Barkley, sir, there's no more time. We have to get in position, and you and your brother have to get out of this camp. I don't know what that little girl was yelling about _yayali_ , but I know what she saw, 'cause my scout saw it too. Those two companies of Morgan's are less than an hour's ride away. Shift change for the fence guard is in fifteen minutes. You have to go now."

"Jarrod –"

"I know, Nick. I know. I'm worried too. I don't like it at all."

Rivka hugged them both. "I'll talk to him, I promise. And maybe Haja can help. She sees it clear, I think." She looked over her shoulder at the barn, then off to the western horizon. "But right now – Yayali's coming, you've got to get out of here, and we've got to get that little girl safely off the roof."

* * *

Their ascent to the Barkley's campsite didn't take long. As the two buckboards rumbled up the hill, Nick and Jarrod could hear Frank Sawyer barking orders down by the gate, as his men hustled to get in position. The two night shift soldiers had been turned loose with a message for Colonel Morgan and whoever his most senior representative was on site: they were to deliver a written notice to the Army that the fence patrol had been relieved of their duties by the U.S. Marshal Service, on the order of Marshal John Smith, in the exercise of their jurisdictional powers to police, protect, and investigate any legal matters pertaining to any Indian peoples, such powers being duly assigned to the USMS by the legislative bodies of the federal government and signed into law by the Chief Executive of said federal government, such Chief Executive being _also_ the Commander in Chief of the U.S. Army. By the time Nick and Jarrod reached their hilltop, the encampment was wide awake, on full alert, and the troop was mobilizing men to notify the approaching Colonel of the situation and to surround the internment enclosure. Climbing down from the wagons, the two men turned to watch, as John and Victoria joined them.

Frank had made sure he had control of the most advantageous of the potential firing and observation points, they could see, but he couldn't control them all. As the soldiers surrounded the prison, the four watchers followed with anxious eyes, as several riflemen took up positions on high ground from which they could fire into the camp.

Something in the camp had caught the riflemen's attention. They were shouting to each other, and pointing, and now bringing their rifle sights to bear on a target inside the fence.

* * *

Heath kept his eyes on Malila as he ran to the barn, cursing the fatigue of his muscles for slowing him down, cursing these self-serving men and their guns and their cruelty; cursing whatever ill fortune had caused this farm to be abandoned and this barn left to rot. He cursed the disease that was killing Malila's parents, leaving her unattended to climb these rotting timbers. And Heath cursed his father. From the depths of his broken body and the pain that was crushing his heart, right then, he cursed his father.

Now he had a voice to remember Tom Barkley by. He could hear it: it was a commanding voice, communicating concern and the urgency of the moment. But now, Heath realized, he had heard no fear in that voice: neither fear for the man himself or for his sons' safety, nor fear of the agony that would come from empathy, should he fail. Tom Barkley had no real reason to fear for his safety or that of his sons. They were not at risk in this gold rush frenzy of extermination. _No fear_. It seemed now what Heath heard instead in that voice was a certain combative excitement: the pleasure of the race, the thrill of playing the heroic White man with his sons, the appeal of the righteous drama.

Such motivations are all well and good, Heath reckoned – many good works have been done by people who didn't honestly _care_ _,_ but who chose for their own reasons to fight the good fight, stand up for the little guy, help the poor and the crippled. _Shallow, maybe, but you hope that when an actual hard decision comes along, a life and death decision, you hope that most folks will choose right. You hope that they wouldn't choose murder. But maybe more people would, if they thought they could get away with it. I'd hate to think that way…_

 _"They are coming here now. Now, Papati! Boy, tell him. Make him understand. The State of California has increased the bounty for Indian scalps. These are gangs of paid killers coming after you now. And we have at least six more villages to warn."_

Maybe they did save some lives that night. But Heath cursed that man who would race like Paul Revere through the mountains, at little risk to himself, to rescue people he really didn't care about; a man who, when faced with a _choice_ , chose instead to protect himself rather than a helpless child. Heath cursed this man, who offered up his bastard son as a sacrifice to his comfortable status quo, and left him there on the bloody altar of chance.

 _Did he want me dead?_ _Not just out of sight or unknown – did he wish me dead -?_ Heath had never really thought of his unknown father that way, when he thought of him at all. He had Tom's voice now, though, and the idea became abruptly believable: it filled his mind with a feeling of a universe no longer just indifferent, but pervasively malevolent and actively predatory. A universe where choices like Tom Barkley's are commonplace truths.

"Me'weh, I can see him from up here! I see his head, falling toward us to the east! I see his body off to the west! Has he fallen already, Me'weh? Is he dead and on the ground?"

"Malila, please don't move – there's rotten wood up there – I don't want you to fall. I'm bringing a rope up to get you down safely, you understand me?"

"OK, Me'weh. I'll stay still."

Heath started climbing, and focused his thinking on that task. He was aware of Rivka reaching the base of the wall, calling to him to be careful. He sensed others of the Miwok men following behind him to help, but wisely keeping their distance to avoid overburdening the dry, termite-eaten beams. Hand and footholds weren't hard to find, as large gaps in the siding were everywhere.

He reached the ridgeline of the roof and began to move cautiously toward Malila. He carried a coiled rope across his chest. When he got close enough, he formed a lasso loop at one end and tossed it to Malila, telling her to put it around her chest, under her arms. The other end he wrapped an exposed upright beam that seemed pretty stable. Movement caught his eye and he spotted one of the Miwok men – Heath seemed to remember that was one of her uncles – who had appeared at the bottom of the roof. The man gestured to indicate that he could guide her back down, now that Heath had her on a belay.

" _Jey, Kakah Istu!_ " Malila waved merrily to greet her Uncle Istu, and he scowled and scolded her. Heath didn't need a translator to know he was telling her to stop fooling around.

Heath was glad for the upright beam to help him with the rope – his arms were already shaking with fatigue from the digging and the climb. He wouldn't trust the little girl to his grip right now.

"OK, little one, I've got you. You just slide nice and easy down to Istu there. Nice – and – easy."

"I'm glad you came, Me'weh. I was glad I got to see Yayali, but I didn't know how to get down."

"No more climbing up here, y'hear?" he said sternly. "These timbers could break pretty much anywhere."

"OK, Me'weh. Me'weh?" Movement to the west had caught his eye, and he couldn't help but stare. "Do you see him there, his head and his body? Yayali?"

"Yes, yes I do, little one –" Yayali, indeed – Heath could see the giant's body: two marching, riding columns bristling with guns, snaking over the hilly terrain. And there was Yayali's head, the small command group riding smartly out in front of the mounted troop. _There you are, Colonel. There you are._

Of necessity, Heath pulled himself back from brooding over the Colonel – another man who indicated clearly what he considered Heath to be worth, and took action accordingly – but there was no time to think about that right now. A thrumming drumbeat of anger lay down that path, and fear, and something else Heath did not yet recognize. No time, no time for that right now. He nodded to Malila to start scooting down to her uncle.

She swung her leg over the ridge and had started down. Heath had her weight supported by the rope, so far so good. He could hear distant commotion, sensed activity outside the fence, but he was focused on the little girl. Stayed focused on her, even when the riflemen opened fire on the barn roof.


	36. Chapter 35 - Something Sings

_It is not only in the rose,_

 _It is not only in the bird,_

 _Not only where the rainbow glows,_

 _Nor in the song of woman heard,_

 _But in the darkest, meanest things_

 _There alway, alway something sings._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Music"_

* * *

At the edge of his vision, Heath saw the muzzle flashes and smoke: one, two, three, four rifles, firing nearly simultaneously. He reacted without conscious thought, moving for cover before the sound of gunfire even arrived.

Back in 1862, U.S. Army Captain John Welker of the Western Sharpshooters received from California a bewildered and clearly underage "sixteen-year-old" private. He evaluated the soldier according to the transfer orders he received, and found the boy to have a nearly supernatural talent as a marksman. Welker took Private Thomson under his wing and he trained him well. Heath knew how to duck. But nobody had ever taught him how to evade gunfire on a rotting roof while trying to get a little girl on a belay line out of harm's way.

He saw the flash and threw himself flat on the downslope of the roof, hoping he'd been enough of an inviting silhouette on the ridgeline that the shooters would have aimed high, wanting to pick him off. As he moved, he deliberately slacked the rope, knowing that the sudden sliding descent would cause Malila to reflexively lay herself down flat on the roof as well.

Next came the sound. He heard the gunshots, and he knew the bullets were not far behind. He saw Malila sliding down toward the edge of the roof, and saw that Itsu and the other Miwok men who had been waiting to catch her had ducked for cover and were nowhere in sight. Heath threw one arm over the ridge of the roof to brace himself to hold her weight if she slid over the edge, clamped his other hand desperately on the rope, and prayed the soldiers had terrible aim.

That was a prayer that would not be granted, Heath quickly realized. Pine shingles exploded into splinters around him. He swore and ducked his face into his arm in an attempt to protect his eyes from the flying bits of wood. A blazing line of pain striped one shoulder as a bullet grazed him and embedded itself in the upright he had been using as an anchor just a moment before. He flinched, and lost his grip on the rope.

Malila screamed as she suddenly began sliding rapidly toward the empty verge of the barn roof. She scrabbled vainly for something to slow her descent, looking up at him with terror in her eyes. "Me'weh -! Me'weh, don't let me fall –"

She was falling away from him, the rope was sliding rapidly away from him, it was all falling away and out of his reach. Falling into nothing.

 _Set you free if I could._

His head was full of the memory of crashing darkness, and the splintering, cracking pain of broken branches. Malila slipped over the edge of the roof, hung on for a brief second, and then fell from sight. Malila was beyond his grasp, but the rope –

Without a thought of what might come next for him, Heath threw himself bodily after that retreating hemp line. He felt his hands close around the rough cord. He gripped it ferociously, gratefully, desperately; he felt it catch her up, unseen, at the other end. But there was no victory to celebrate yet. Now he was in a battle to stop his own slide into nothing. A losing battle, and one that would take Malila down along with him. In silence he fought the rotting roof, the forces of gravity, and a second round of bullets that whined and exploded around him, fired by men who didn't care about the life of a little girl.

He heard shouted commands off in the distance, but no more gunfire. Holding the line with one hand, Heath was frantically reaching and searching for any kind of a hold or anchor. Hunks of broken shingles came off in his hand. His boots found nothing to slow him down. As he slid to the edge, as he felt the roof begin to disappear from under him, he heard Malila scream again in fear. With a roar of rage, he pounded on the shingles with his fist, and finally, praise heaven, he felt his arm break through to the timbers beneath. He wrapped his arm around a creaking, moldy beam. He came to an excruciating, jerking halt and held on, half on and half off the roof. Eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched, everything in him was focused on keeping his grip on the rope in his other hand.

The world had gone abruptly silent except for the faint creaking of the beams, his own harsh breathing, and Malila's faint fearful crying somewhere down below him. A small groan escaped him as his thinking mind waded through the debris of mayhem and pure survival instinct and caught up with his body. Heath reckoned he should be grateful that Malila was such a little kid; as it was, he felt like he was being torn in half. Then it occurred to him that the termite-ridden beam he was so desperately holding on to might give out before that happened.

 _At least they're not shooting at us now. I hope someone down there's figuring out how to get Malila down, 'cause there ain't much more I can do from this end. And they better get it done quick,_ he thought, as the timbers below him creaked alarmingly.

 _C'mon, cowboy, I know you won't drop me._

Heath deliberately tried to turn his attention to anything that might distract him from the steady, painful, implacable pull on the rope. He knew, in the long run, that force would win the war: It was eternal, and he was not. Eventually his strength would give out. Thinking on that truth could make a man feel hopeless, Heath knew too well. So he reminded himself that this was not eternity, it was a single battle, and he intended to win this one. He couldn't save her alone, but he didn't need to hold on forever. He just needed to hold on long enough.

He heard Rivka and Haja's voices down below, mingling with those of the men as they worked on a plan to get Malila down. Having no ladder, they settled on a stretched tarpaulin the marshals had brought to serve as a shelter. Rivka called up to Heath when they were in position and told him to let go of the rope. Malila bounced easily on the makeshift trampoline, giggling and crying both. Her uncle scooped her up.

"I knew Me'weh wouldn't let me fall," she told him. He hugged her silently, eyes closed in relief.

Up above, Heath groaned again, partly in relief at being able to use both arms to hold his weight, and partly in frustration as he realized just how stuck he was clinging to the eaves of the busted-up roof. He couldn't climb up or down, and he didn't know how long he'd be able to hold on where he was.

"Hang on, Heath, we're coming to get you –"

"We? Who's **_we_** , darlin'?" He shifted his weight again, looking anxiously around him for options as his muscles ached, the beams creaked, and the roof shed pieces of dusty wood. The fragments spun and fell noiselessly down into the dimness to the barn floor far below. "Comin' to get me how -?" He glanced down to the yard, and was glad to see Malila already running off with the other children.

"Me'weh. If I send you a rope, can you climb up?"

Surprised, he looked up. It was Notaku. He seemed almost to loom over Heath, tall as he was and straddling the ridge of the roof. He gazed solemnly down at him, another rope in his hands.

Heath didn't answer immediately. A few hours ago, this man wanted him dead, and would have accomplished that, most likely, if Haja had not intervened. Now here he was, offering to help. In fact, he was asking Heath to – quite literally – put his life in his hands. Heath figured he had to say something to that, even if it didn't look like he much in the way of other options.

"Yeah, I reckon I could," Heath said.

Notaku nodded and started to remove the rope from his shoulder.

"How is your wife doing?" Heath asked.

Notaku stopped, surprised. "You know about my wife?"

"Haja told me."

"She is a little better. She is still very sick, but Rivka thinks she is healing."

"I'm glad to hear that. So, do you –" Heath grunted as he tried unsuccessfully to find an easier position. "- do you still think I'm – I'm a -" He found he couldn't quite bring himself to say the word. He sidestepped slightly. "Do you still want me dead? I mean, before you send that rope down here. If you're wanting to knock me off this roof, I don't figure there's going to be much I can do about it, I'd just rather know ahead of time."

Notaku answered gravely. "I understand. You will be safe in my hands, Me'weh." He threw one end of the rope down.

* * *

On a hilltop a hundred yards or so to the west, a young lieutenant with a distinctive birthmark on his neck paced up and down and berated four of his riflemen for opening fire without orders on a target that included several children and other non-combatants, and that not only presented no threat, but in fact contained a field hospital authorized by the California Board of Public Health. The riflemen, bemused, quietly accepted the dressing-down. They didn't much disagree with their lieutenant, in principle, but they were certain he'd be swatted like a fly if he started making that kind of talk in front of the Colonel.


	37. Chapter 36 - Convergence

_Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night_

 _When evils are most free? O, then by day_

 _Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough_

 _To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy._

 _Hide it in smiles and affability._

 _William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"_

* * *

 ** _Earlier that night, 2:30 AM, outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874_**

"We're all overwrought."

Audra heard her mother's businesslike tone of voice; she felt her strong, familiar hands on her shoulders, turning her toward her tent. Victoria was urging her to rest, and in the aftermath of the emotions Jarrod's revelation had provoked, Audra wouldn't deny she felt drained and exhausted. She didn't resist her mother's direction to go lie down, but she thought it very unlikely that she'd be able to sleep.

She gazed at the roof of her tent, allowing her thoughts and emotions to go where they chose as she remembered the events of the previous day. It was all rather overwhelming. The day had started with that awful letter of Peale's – those soldiers attacking her brother – and then Heath and Rivka disappearing into that barbed-wire camp. A few tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought of how much suffering was contained inside that makeshift, cruel prison. There were children in there, dying for lack of food and clean water.

She sat up and reached for her boots. There was no way she was going to be able to lie still and rest. She stepped out of her tent and decided to walk over to see the horses. She didn't want company – what she wanted was some time to sort through these experiences on her own. She moved around the dark perimeter of the campsite, listening to Jarrod and Nick talk with Mother and John as they prepared to bring the two wagons full of supplies to the camp. She was certain they had a plan, but Audra didn't know what it was, and she couldn't see how they expected to just drive right into the prison and make a delivery.

Hearing her brothers' voices brought Audra right back to unhappy thoughts about her father. It made her feel sick, hearing how Heath had crossed paths with her – with **_their_** \- father and Nick and Jarrod. Even with Jarrod's explanation of why they made the choices they did, it still felt so terribly disappointing that her heroic, invincible, can-do, _nothing-is-impossible-if-you-want-it-enough_ father couldn't come up with a way not to abandon a small boy in the wilderness. **_Any_** boy, lost there without family – but how much more painful it was to realize that small boy was her brother, hurt and scared and alone. It made her want to scream in rage. To Audra, always, Father was unstoppable. He was brave, daring, and clever.

 _So what happened, Father? What happened to can-do? He was one little boy. How hard could it have been for you to come up with some way to help him?_ No matter whatever, _you always said_. If you can dream it, if you really **want** it, you can do anything. No matter whatever. _So why didn't you **want** to…?_

That question felt **_very_** uncomfortable. She decided to think about something else for a while, then try coming back to it. She walked past Moshe's wagon, where Nox was tethered and sleeping. She saw a lantern turned down low, heard quiet sounds of distress from Peter, and Moshe's calm, kind voice reassuring the younger man. It seemed, from the small glimpse she had as she passed, that Peter had woken with pain in his arm. Moshe was helping him ease it, holding his hand and moving the arm gently through its range of motion, working out the muscle spasm and constricting scar tissue. Peter grimaced in pain but did not pull away or fight what the older man was doing. She sensed, again, that a remarkable trust and caring had taken root between them. _Ilsa, we must find you. Your family is here. We must find you!_

 _I'm so glad Husu is with us to help. I'm sure he can bring us to her. Husu said he would help Marshal Montana find Teleli and bring him in – neither of them seem to think that Teleli has been responsible for the attacks on people around here, but what if they're wrong? Husu said Teleli was crazy, mad – maybe he's changed. Maybe he has become one of those who just wants to kill White people. He certainly has had a life that could make a man feel that way…they should be careful hunting for him._

She reached the tether line where the rest of the mounts were dozing. She took a deep breath, enjoying the cool mountain air and the smell of the horses. A screech owl called, and Audra smiled, remembering Heath trying to teach her to make that funny staccato tooting sound he could imitate so perfectly.

That trip they took together last month up to Strawberry had opened Audra's eyes to many things about Heath's poverty-stricken origins. Some were sweet to see, like his skill at bird-calling, and figuring out home repairs, and the profound love of the women who raised him. Some things were painful, like the vicious reception Heath received from his Uncle Matt and a few other men, when they were able to corner him alone in the livery in town. These memories were dragging Audra back around to the question of their father, and Heath, and what the consequences had been of their father's lack of **_wanting-to_** when it came to a lost boy in the mountains.

She shook her head. No, she didn't feel ready to tackle that question. _I need to walk some more, and think –_

She stepped away from the tether line toward a wooded area, listening again for the owl's call. When it didn't come, she took a breath, thinking she'd give it a try. She froze when a man materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, close behind her. She felt a gun barrel pressed to the small of her back, and a rough hand came up to rest lightly over her throat; both communicating the message clearly. _Don't move, don't make a sound._ Out of the corner of her eye she could see long black hair, dark skin, dark eyes. A voice spoke in a harsh whisper by her ear.

"No noise. No fuss. Just walk." They moved silently forward into the dark beyond the light of the smoldering campfire, and were lost to view.

* * *

 _**Sunrise, outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874**_

Rifle fire crackled over the prison enclosure and then rolled in muted echoes up into the foothills. Several pairs of rock pigeons were startled by the gunshots and came flapping out from a grove of oak trees. Several more took flight at the sound of Nick's anger.

"God- ** _damn_** them! Are they shooting at the **_barn_**? Are they shooting at Heath? For God's sake, if nothing else is sacred to them, there's a little girl up there! What the hell are they **_doing_**?"

"I don't know what the hell they think they're doing, but it's gonna stop," John gritted out. "Time for me to get down there." He paused to look at Victoria. She looked resolute. He opened his mouth to say something; "I love you," was all he could come up with. She kissed him and told him to go.

"You knew this was how it would be, John. Believe me, I've tried to think of some way to face this enemy that would keep you – keep us _all_ \- safe at home. I haven't come up with one yet."

"If you think of one, Vee, you be sure to let me know as soon as possible."

"Oh, believe me –" She put her arms around him and tilted up her face to look in his eyes. He couldn't help but kiss her when she looked at him like that. More rifle fire, and she stepped back. "I love you, John. Go."

* * *

 _"If you're wanting to knock me off this roof, I don't figure there's going to be much I can do about it, I'd just rather know ahead of time."_

 _"I understand. You will be safe in my hands, Me'_ _weh."_

 _Safe in his hands? This man barely knows me, and seems like everything he thinks he knows tells him I brought catastrophe down on him and his people._

Nevertheless, true to his word, Notaku had tossed Heath a line and used it to haul the exhausted man back up from the precipice. Heath had endeavored to help as much as he could, but between the lack of foot- or handholds, his utter fatigue, and the burning pain of his back and arm that sapped whatever strength he had left, he had to rely almost entirely on the big Indian to make the ascent. Notaku was himself sweating and breathing hard by the time Heath could throw an arm and a leg over the ridge. They both rested there for a bit, not talking, just watching the sky grow brighter and listening to the sounds of Morgan's forces as they deployed themselves around the camp.

There hadn't been a moment, since that rope had come snaking down to him, that Heath hadn't been acutely aware that Notaku held his life in his hands. _He still does. One good shove is all it would take._ Heath was feeling like he could barely lift his arms, much less defend himself in any meaningful way. And he could still hear the anguish of the man's voice when he had faced him yesterday.

 _"You were cursed when we found you in the river. Should've left you there…They burned down our village and chased us up into the mountains, and your curse had never left us. We have never had a home again. **Never**."_

 _But here I am, it seems, safe in the hands of a man who has lost so much, has suffered so much. He put that aside and he helped me. He gave what he could, a rope and a hand to climb up. Jarrod gave what he could, too, way back then in '59; he gave Hannah and me a way to get back home…a way to get back to my Mama and Rachael. Mama was another one who always wanted to keep me safe, even though she had nothing because of me. She kept me, she loved me, even though I brought so much evil down on her and took away her chances for a good life._

 _I wasn't safe in my father's hands, though, looks like. No, not safe, not safe at all._

Tom Barkley had the courage and vision to take a stand with his neighbors against land-grabbing railroads; he was willing to advocate where he could on behalf of mine-workers and Indians and set an example of fairness for other employers. He had a strong partner in his wife; he had healthy, loyal sons and a daughter; he was gathering to himself strength and wealth and land and allies.

 _He had too much to lose. I get that. For me, for my mother, Tom Barkley's "guts" failed. He wasn't willing to take the risk._

The family had held fervently to a belief that Tom Barkley would have taken his bastard into his heart and home as a son, had Heath come to them before his death. In his own mind, Heath had always thought it very unlikely that Tom would welcome the product of his infidelity into the fold - other than perhaps as a peripheral employee, so long as his presence caused no disruption - but he didn't argue against their idealistic notions. What would be the point?

Whether Tom Barkley simply didn't bother to find out if he had fathered an illegitimate child, or if he suspected it, or even if he knew it for a certainty: these were all moral shades of gray to Heath, none really much better or worse than the other. His father was an imperfect human being, after all – no surprise there.

These idealistic notions: that's what the family **_said_** they believed, when Heath was around. He was starting to wonder if any of them would eventually admit to having no real surprise at the truth. Not now, maybe, but over time, once they got past the initial disappointment and could be more honest with themselves, and with him.

For now, though, he understood that those shades of gray were very important to Victoria and to his brothers and sister. Jarrod's suspicion that his father _recognized_ Heath – and Haja's implied confirmation - were bound to bring them great pain. Heath truly felt bad about that, and he was desperately trying to think of something he could do to ease the hurt for the family. But that wasn't the looming unknown that had him wanting to get out of his brothers' sight as fast as possible. That wasn't it. There was another question, the answer to which threatened to alter fundamentally his path forward. An answer that might force him to inflict a terrible injury on himself and on a family he loved.

 _"Why do you have a White child here in your village?"_

 _Tom Barkley._

 _Did you send Jarrod back because you felt guilty and worried? Or were you hoping for confirmation that the stray dog was put down and the threat eliminated?_

 _Did you – my father – did you look me in the eye and want me dead?_

Heath knew he was exhausted and no longer thinking clearly. He was struggling mightily to not let that bleak thought overwhelm him. _There's too much unknown. It's not just black and white. Just leave it, Heath, you don't have to figure it out right now. It doesn't matter._ Repeating that to himself a few times helped a little. He pushed the sadness aside as best he could and concentrated instead on the climb down.

Notaku watched him closely from the roof as Heath moved carefully back down the side of the barn, testing each exposed timber to see if it would hold his weight. Rivka and a few of the Miwok men reached up to steady him as he got his feet back on the ground. He turned to look at her, and then pulled her to him in a long embrace. He kissed her hair, and murmured her name, feeling as though the warmth of her body against his was the only thing keeping him alive.

He couldn't expect her to keep him upright, however. Feeling his legs about to give way, he leaned back against the pine planks of the barn wall with a groan. He smiled wearily into her dark eyes.

"Hey darlin', you pack in any of that funny-smelling chili pepper salve you concocted? That stuff worked wonders, but I think it wore off about twelve hours ago."

"Yes, I did, cowboy, and I think it's time you and I both get some rest. Haja and I have been spelling each other some, and things are a bit more organized in the barn. Your pump is running smoothly; there's no one to bury so far this morning, though I think there will be by the end of the day. The army has surrounded the camp just as we expected they would. Marshal Smith has stationed himself at the gate to start negotiations. Malali is safely back on the ground, as are you. Time to get sleep while we can." She was studying him intently as she gave her dispassionate report. She knew they had yet to talk about what he had overheard this morning.

"And you? How you holdin' up, darlin'?"

"I'm exhausted. Trying my best not to think about the fact that most of this catastrophe around us is man-made. Trying just to focus on what I can do to save some lives and maybe ease some of this suffering. Wishing I could talk to my mother, or Lotte. Wishing you could just hold me for a little while."

"I can do that, darlin'. Definitely. Long as I don't have to be standing up –" he winced, pushing himself away from the wall with an effort. "Lead the way, love."

Taking his hand, Rivka brought him into the barn and up a rickety set of stairs off in a dusty corner. The stairs gave access to a small partial loft, where Rivka had swept out the cobwebs and set up a sleep area for the two of them. At the top step, he stopped, swaying slightly as he looked around him.

"This is a palace compared to New Mexico. A honeymoon suite," he smiled down at her. "Heaven. The height of luxury, long as I'm with you."

"I agree," she said simply. "Do you want to talk about your father?'

"No." Pain darkened his eyes, and he braced one hand on the wall to steady himself as he took a slow breath in. "Yes -–" Frowning, his gaze focused on the bronze blades of sunshine that sliced through the gaps in the siding and sparkled with floating dust in the dimness. He tracked the swirling, random motes with narrowed eyes, staring intently as if the pattern-less movement might spell out some kind of useful truth. Specks bright as gold dust flowed from dark to light and back into darkness.

" ** _Damn_** him –" Heath suddenly burst out, and slammed his fist into the wall, cracking the boards and bringing a rain of dust down from the rafters. He swayed again, then sank down heavily to sit on the top step, letting out a single sob that to Rivka sounded more frustrated than sad. She had stayed close to steady him, and now sat down by his side on the steps. She held him in her arms and waited, silently, for him to speak. Drained and shaking with fatigue, he leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the rough pine planks under his boots. Blood dripped slowly from the knuckles of his right hand. Each bright red drop turned dark as it landed, soaking quickly into the parched, porous, neglected wood. "Damn him…" he said, more softly.

"Yes," she agreed.

"Haja told you."

"Yes, she came to talk to me just a few minutes before Nick and Jarrod arrived. Apparently this village has remembered and known of the Barkleys for many years."

"She also thinks my father knew who I was. I was watching her. She wasn't surprised by what Jarrod said."

"No, she wasn't, though she didn't say anything about that before." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Did you hear what else Haja said?"

"Yes," he said. "Different trials, and different treasures." He looked sidelong at her, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Different treasures. Can't disagree with that." The smile faded. He sighed and looked back at the floor. " _Damn_ him. Damn him for hurting them, again and again – as if just my existence wasn't painful enough. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was – was –" He shook his head. "Maybe - maybe I should leave. I'll go work in San Francisco. I'd go anywhere you want to go, Rivka –"

"She also said, _truly you must belong to each other_."

"How? The sight of me is making them miserable. What kind of belonging is that?"

"How they deal with the reality of their father's failures, whatever they may be, is their problem to solve, Heath. You can't change what Tom Barkley did. I honestly don't know what anyone could do to make this knowledge easier for them to take. But _you_ leaving certainly won't make it easier. You will hurt your family badly by running away from them." She tugged on his shirt, which was dirty and torn from his slide down the barn roof. "Take this thing off. Let's get you cleaned up and I'll get this salve on your back and arms."

"Thanks, darlin'," he said, his voice and expression distant as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He seemed mesmerized once again by the moving, shifting air. Dark, light, dark, light…"It looks like a pattern, but it isn't really," he murmured.

"What are you talking about?"

"The dust…" He blinked and shivered slightly, then put his head down in his hands. "I've never felt so helpless as I did there in that village. I had a broken leg, I couldn't move without being dizzy and sick and feeling like my skull was splitting open, and I was completely blind. Only Teleli could speak English with me. And there was Husu. The more scared I got, I think, the more he would stay by me. The scalp hunters were on their way to the village, and if they'd caught me, I'd either be killed for my scalp, or I'd be sold off to someone for indenture or – or - _entertainment_ , and who knows if I would've ever made it back home alive." He held his hands out in front of him, remembering. "That's how I was, when I felt him standing over me and staring at me. Completely blind – for good, for all I knew - and terrified, but I could _feel_ his eyes on me. I keep thinking if I could have seen **_him_** , I would know."

"Know what, love?"

He didn't answer immediately. Head bowed again, his eyes traced the shapes his blood had drawn in the dust of the stair - his blood, long gone, long since drunk down into the decaying planks. "I would know if he – if my father **_knew_** me, right then. I'd know if he wanted me to - wanted –"

She was beginning to understand. "If you could have seen him, you would have known if he wanted you dead."

"Yes." He looked grief-stricken.

"I think maybe I see why you want to leave, Heath." Rivka wrapped a clean blanket over his shoulders. Her expression was intense, serious, as she saw more clearly what Heath was struggling with. "If that **_is_** how it was with him. How could you go back to live in a place that is full to overflowing with his honored memory, and the love of his family? How could you build on his legacy, honor **_his_** name with **_your_** hard work and skill and compassion? How could you live with a family – much as you love each other – when they can't help but love the man that **_they_** remember, if that's truly how he was?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I can."

 _Yes, **damn** you, Tom Barkley,_ Rivka thought angrily. _How many different ways can you hurt this son of yours? You conveniently forgot about Leah. You denied her and Heath any kind of support or protection. You granted him entry, finally – in absentia and only by the good graces of your extraordinary wife – to the love and devotion of this family. And then – and **then –** your weaknesses threaten to tear it all away from him. If this truly **is** who you were, Tom Barkley, you could hardly have hurt him more than if you just tore out that ten-year-old boy's heart and left him for the wolves, before he knew anything of your family. _

Kneeling behind him, Rivka put her salve away and set her medical bag aside, using the moment to get her own anger under control. Putting her arms around him once more, she spoke quietly by his ear. "We don't know if that's how he was. And **_if_** it's true, I seriously doubt these Barkleys will go on celebrating the father's memory without some major reflection and reevaluation. Come get some rest, love. Leave it alone for now. This is all new information for us, and there is much about your father that we don't know for sure. It does no good to pass judgement from ignorance. One thing I do know for certain: That family up on the hill there loves you. They love **_you_** so much, in fact, that they're willing to back **_me_** up on this long-shot, politically unpopular rescue mission. I'm a little overwhelmed by the reflected devotion, to be honest."

Heath laughed softly and looked up at her. "Devoted. Boy howdy, I guess that's one way to describe 'em."

He wanted nothing more right then than to lie down in her arms and lose himself in the warmth of her body, in the beating of her heart. Turning, he drew her close and kissed her. She could feel the hum of desperation in him, the tension as he tried to keep the feeling at bay; he was holding her, yes, but he was also holding **_on_** to her for dear life. His touch and his kiss were rougher than usual, textured with fear and anger. She brought him to bed; she gave herself to him and loved him, and in the dim of the sparkling dust they held each other safe.


	38. Chapter 37 - O Vanity of Hope

_I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,  
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;  
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,  
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,  
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,  
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:  
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,  
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:  
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat  
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,  
Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,  
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet._

 _W.B. Yeats, "Michael Robartes Bids his Beloved Be at Peace"_

* * *

 ** _Morning, Outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874_**

Heath drowsed, his eyes roaming over the hazy rafters of the barn. He had immersed himself in the blessing of her touch; the sensation of Rivka's warm hands, of her hair falling over his skin, of her breath in his ear as she laughed and sighed; lost himself in the taste of her body and the strength of her arms as she held him tight and they moved together. She lay quiet now against him, the sky at rest upon the ocean after a storm. Sleepily, she reached up a hand and ran her fingers through his short hair, smiling as she felt him hug her a little closer. He pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.

"Maybe we could get your family to come up sooner to visit," he murmured. "Take Frank up on his offer. I'll come take care of you in San Francisco. I'll work at your hospital for free – they can consider it just another Barkley donation in support of the Pacific Dispensary. What d'ya think?" He spoke partly in jest, his mind wandering with fatigue and still dazed from the passion of their coming together. He reckoned he'd be happy with almost any scenario in which he could be with her.

Still, the storm rumbled low all around him, distanced for the moment, but echoing inside him. He wondered, and he often did these days, if it was just an impossible dream for him: that life, or any life. He could feel waves of the past day's events rolling through him, each one submerging him in a bleak inevitability. _Arrival_. In this place, his busted up body and fragmented mind made perfect sense, and that familiar insinuating whisper wrapped around him with each wave, welcoming him home and mocking his thoughts of the future.

Right then he was endeavoring to push away the image of Malali falling; the sensation of her slipping out of his grasp kept surging back into his mind and making his heart race. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing instead on the feeling of Rivka's skin under his hands.

Rivka shifted herself a little higher and kissed his neck. "Mmm…interesting idea. I like the thought of having you every day." She rested her head on his chest and looked up at the side of his face. "I'm gonna think about that as I fall asleep." She could feel the tension rising and falling in his body now that they lay quiet together, and she knew he was trying to distract himself. She tried to think of something that would help. "It must have been such a relief when you and Hannah finally made it back home from Sutamasina. Your mother and Rachael – I can't imagine how relieved and happy they must have been."

She had thought that memory would be a happy, comforting one, and he initially responded with a fond, faraway look and a slight smile. She could see in his face he was picturing that homecoming, but then he seemed puzzled – and then frankly worried.

"Yeah, they must have been…" he mumbled vaguely, and then stopped, frowning, his eyes searching the empty space in front of him as though something he was looking at had just vanished into thin air.

"Heath? What is it?"

The concern in her voice caught his attention, and he looked at her, seeming to try to shake off some disturbing thought. "It's nothing…I know I was sure happy to be home."

To Rivka he sounded brittle, nervous – he seemed to be retreating in fear, actually, if she were to be honest with herself. She watched him closely.

"I think it took another couple weeks to be able to walk – my eyes came back sooner than that but it still felt like forever – Hannah would know, I bet –" He was backpedaling, for sure, and avoiding her eyes.

She could feel his heart pounding in his chest. _You promised me, Heath,_ she thought, waiting.

The fear in his expression gradually gave way to defeat. He ran one hand over his face. "They must have been happy, relieved. I don't remember." He took a deep breath. "I remember leaving the village. I remember the trip home – some – I think I slept a good part of the way. I remember getting to the cabin. The driver wouldn't help my Mama get me inside – he just wanted to drop us off like two sacks of feed and move on. Maybe that was 'cause Rachael met him outside with the shotgun, ready to run him off, until she saw us. And then -" His eyes were searching again. "And then I – we -" He struggled for a few more moments, then finally gave up. There was nothing there. Silenced, he stared dumbly at the fact that he was missing a long stretch of time – weeks, or possibly even months - time he hadn't even realized he'd lost.

He had to force himself to continue speaking. "I don't remember anything else of when I came back home. Why don't I remember?" He looked at Rivka, confused, uncertain. _Has this been happening all my life?_ _What else am I missing?_

Rivka stroked his hair again and told him to put it aside and try to sleep. "Love, you were ten years old, had been through a terrible experience, _and_ you'd had a bad head injury. I understand what you're worried about – I'm not trying to brush it off – but maybe don't read too much into it just yet. We'll ask Hannah what she remembers. Right now you need to sleep."

* * *

As the sun rose behind him, the trail down to the prison camp became more visible, and John pushed Scout into a brisk gallop as he approached Morgan's outer perimeter. He pulled up when several rifleman moved out to challenge him.

"U.S. Marshal John Smith," he stated, ignoring the riflemen and speaking to the junior officer who had stepped out onto the trail.

The officer looked him over, then nodded, gesturing to his men to let Smith pass. The lieutenant shrugged at their surprised looks. He'd been instructed by his captain to allow Marshal Smith to join his men at the camp; he had been let to know, in fact, that the captain had received those orders from well up in the chain of command.

John picked up his pace again, aware of the fact that this was the first time he'd actually ridden right up to the prison enclosure. The new, close-strung barbed wire sparkled in the morning sunlight, and he felt a queasy anger rising up in his throat as he pictured the ailing families that vicious fence was intended to enclose. He'd heard no more rifle fire, thank goodness, and he wondered if there were at least a few of Morgan's officers who still had some respect for civil rights, or at least had respect for the rule of law.

Just to one side of the stockade gate, John saw Frank emerge from a roughly fortified dugout that was serving as his bunker and command post. Trenches and low barriers for cover ran in both directions outside the fence. He dismounted at the gate and strode forward to greet his old friend and colleague.

"Frank, nice work, as always. Looks like your men put in a good long night's effort."

"True that, John. They're a good crew. Got things set up quickly enough we were able to relieve each other for a little bit of shut-eye, at least until Morgan's snipers on the high ground to the east there decided a little girl was a mortal threat." He glared up at the hilltop. "Thank God, some officer up there had some sense and shut 'em down."

"Snipers?" Smith had to admit that shocked even him. At worst he had envisioned the gunfire had come from some poorly restrained or bored infantry men. The fact that Morgan had positioned sniper teams around a camp full of women and children – a camp full of **_civilians_** , for God's sake, male _or_ female – was chilling.

"Oh, yes," Frank confirmed darkly. "Snipers. Damn near picked Heath right off the roof. Would have, I bet, if he didn't move so damn fast. As it was, I'm pretty sure they at least grazed him – almost lost him and the girl off the roof. Good thing he's – he – well, let's just say, good thing he ain't a quitter." His face was impassive, but John knew Frank well enough to see what he'd been feeling about all that. Their eyes met, both of them resolute and realistic about the grim situation before them. Frank broke the silence with a resigned laugh and slapped John on the back. "Hell of a way to end your career, John. Maybe we'll retire together in Folsom Prison. Or maybe they'll hang me and Neagle on either side of you, like a modern-day Calvary."

John winced at Frank's gruesome gallows humor and shook his head. "Uh-uh. No. Attorney General Williams appointed _me_ as your boss, and as far as I'm concerned, you're all just following my orders."

Frank shrugged, and then turned with John to watch a contingent of senior army officers approach the gate. "Guess we'll have to wait 'n see if the Governor and the California AG agree with you, boss. You should retire, anyway. Spend some time with that beautiful wife of yours."

"Marshal John Smith!" A smartly-uniformed major mounted on a big, restless gelding barked out his name with authority.

John stepped forward and looked up at the young man. He was big, handsome, perfectly groomed, and had a flawless military demeanor – so far, at least. Just the sort of officer Morgan would want in his entourage. John considered the fact that the major looked and sounded the part so well, he could easily have been promoted to this position even if he were dumb as a post. John sighed. _We'll find out soon enough._

"I'm Marshal Smith," he answered in a deliberately conversational tone, thumbs in his gun belt. "And you are -?"

"Major James Henry Mills, U.S. Army."

"Major Mills." John nodded thoughtfully, glanced at Frank, and then asked, "Any relation to the Honorable Congressman Mills?"

Mills expression tightened briefly with suspicion and annoyance. "Yes. Congressman Mills is my father."

"Ah, I see," John said, studying him with a speculative look. Frank looked down to hide his smile. Big John did have a special talent for unsettling folks with the sheer volume of things he didn't say.

The major shifted in his saddle, unsure of why this meeting suddenly felt so off-balance and uncomfortable. _This isn't going right_ , he thought vaguely. He didn't have time to think that through, however, as his restless mount began to fret and dance in response to his rider's anxiety.

John watched the young man struggle to get the big horse under control. He stepped back a pace to stay clear as the gelding spun and fussed and tried to get the bit in his teeth. He waited until Mills was once again facing him and said, "I understand your father and Colonel Morgan have a number of common business ventures. You're not the eldest, though. Of course not – if you were, I'd expect the Congressman would keep you close at hand in the family businesses, no? Still, how fortunate for both the Colonel and your father – and you, of course – that you can serve as their liaison, so to speak."

Mills wasn't entirely sure he understood what all Marshal Smith had just said to him, but he was **_very_** sure he had just been insulted. His controlled authoritarian bearing slipped badly. He looked around at the small group of lawmen arranged in defense of the prison camp.

"Give it up, Smith," he hissed. "You're out-gunned."

"That's quite true." John nodded seriously. "And since when does firepower decide the law?"

"It decides when we find out there's rogue Indians, raiders, hiding in there amongst the rest of them Diggers. Way I see it, that gives us the right to just plow right over you to get to them, soon's the Colonel gives the word." Mills was warming to his message, thinking of his father's tirades over after-dinner drinks. "The good people of this county are wondering why it hasn't been done already. They're wondering why you're protecting them Diggers instead of the White folks who are settlin' and civilizin' this state."

"Power always thinks that it is doing God's service, when it is violating all his laws."

"What -?"

John heard Frank clear his throat and cough behind him, almost certainly trying to cover a laugh. He kept his eyes on Mills. "Something John Adams said. You know, one of the Founding Fathers of our great nation." He looked gravely at the officer, wishing once again that there was some way to shift this situation off the violent track down which they were all hurtling. "Adams also said that the fundamental law of the militia is that it be created, directed and commanded by the law, to support the law. These Indians have a right to be protected under the laws of our nation. That is why we are here. Where is Colonel Morgan, by the way?"

Major Mills glared down at Marshal Smith. He was furious, though he couldn't quite say why. _The Colonel will give this guy what-for,_ he fumed, and that thought made him feel marginally better.

"The Colonel will be along presently, Marshal," he said tightly, his officer's bearing partially restored. "He'll be along, and then we'll end this foolishness." He wheeled his unhappy horse, and he and his escort galloped back to the army encampment.


	39. Chapter 38 - Crooked Paths

_O crooked paths! Woe to the audacious soul, which hoped, by forsaking Thee, to gain some better thing!_

 _Augustine of Hippo, "The Confessions of St. Augustine"_

* * *

 _Once for all, then, a short precept is given thee: Love, and do what thou wilt...let the root of love be within, of this root can nothing spring but what is good._

 _Augustine of Hippo, "Homilies on the First Epistle of John"_

* * *

 ** _Morning, Outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874_**

Victoria lifted the flap of her tent and was glad to see the weather was remaining clear and relatively mild for the time of year. They all had enough to deal with without battling the elements as well. She stretched and was grateful for the few hours of sleep she had gotten since dawn. Much as she could be the elegant lady of the Barkley Mansion, she did still love to wake up out of doors on a clear mountain morning. She went first to the creek, hesitating briefly at Audra's tent. No sound there. Thinking her daughter must still be sleeping, she decided it was best for her to rest undisturbed. Victoria went to wash up, and then carried some fresh water up to the camp for coffee and cooking. She planned to make everyone a nice, big, late breakfast. Peter obviously needed to eat, as did the two Miwok children. She wondered if Moshe would eat bacon or ham – she knew Rivka didn't follow a kosher diet except during the holidays, but perhaps Moshe did. She'd check with Hekeke to see what her little ones would eat. She wished John could be there, and Heath, and Rivka –

She looked out over the prison enclosure, saw some movement at the gate and around the fence perimeter – but no more gunfire, thank heaven. Beyond the campfire, she saw Nick and Jarrod were already up and had tended to the horses. They were coming back to the campfire area now, carry armloads of firewood. The sight of her two dark-haired sons, both still looking very troubled, brought back her own surprise and sadness – and yes, disappointment – at what had been learned last night. She realized with a shock that she hadn't asked them about Heath. Jarrod and Nick had returned from the internment enclosure at dawn, just in time, just before the army had surrounded the camp and the defending marshals. Almost immediately, the shooting had started, and then she was focused on John leaving to take his stand at the gate. Soon after, they'd all stumbled off to get a little bit of sleep. She'd barely had a chance to think about it herself. Well, now, she would feed them, and they'd all have time to talk.

"Thank you, Nick, Jarrod, just pile that up right here." She was already organizing what she needed. "Nick, you get the fire going, please."

Nick kissed his mother good morning, and knelt to his assigned task. As he fished in his pocket for a match, he said, "Jed came back into camp while you were sleeping, brought an extra horse. He and Husu rode out to meet up with Montana and start tracking Teleli."

"Oh -" Victoria looked concerned toward the tent the Miwok family was using, "I imagine Hekeke and the children are worried with him gone. I'll go check on them and bring them over for breakfast." She hesitated, acutely aware of the distress on both of the men's faces, and the pointed looks they were giving each other. She started to turn back, intending to press until they told her what was bothering them, but then changed her mind. She'd go talk to Hekeke first.

Jarrod breathed a sigh of relief. He still hadn't figured out how to tell her what he believed – he didn't know for sure, he didn't have proof – should he suggest such a thing to her when it could wound her – wound all of them - so badly? He sighed. Of course, he had no choice but to speak of it. Nick, Heath, Rivka had heard it. He had to let the rest of the family know –

"I can't believe you kept this to yourself all this time, Jarrod. And then to not say anything when we came back last night –" Nick sat down on a crate near the fire and raked his hand through his hair. His tone wasn't angry, in fact, it was surprisingly gentle. He met Jarrod's mournful gaze. "I think I get it, Jarrod, really I do."

"Thanks, Nick. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. It's been weighing on me, but truly I didn't understand **_why,_** until Haja spoke to me. Then it all came clear. I know some of it was that I just didn't **_want_** to remember. But then – I could see she remembered it the same way. All the things Father said to me came back, but now they hit me in a different way, like puzzle pieces fitting together. I didn't know for sure, I still don't. But how, honestly, can I interpret it any other way? And then this morning – Oh, God, his _face_ , Nick. The look on his face –" They looked at each other, at a loss for words. They both knew. Even without the emergency on the barn roof, they both knew Heath meant to get as far away from them as he could.

"The look on **_whose_** face?" Victoria stood rooted, staring at the two of them. Her voice was faint and hoarse with apprehension. "What is it?" She was terrified by their devastated expressions. "Heath. You're talking about Heath. You saw him – Jarrod? Nick -? What is it? For God's sake, **_tell_** me."

"Mother, I'm so sorry –" Jarrod began. His apology did nothing to ease her rising fear. He tried again. "I didn't realize this before. I think – I believe that Father – I'm almost certain –"

"You believe that Father _what_ , Jarrod?" She started to walk toward him.

"Jarrod thinks father knew – or at least suspected – that Heath was his son, when he saw him up on Tuolumne."

Nick said it for him, his voice deep and hard and clear as a hammer on a nail. Jarrod knew that voice of Nick's. His brother could be volatile, changeable, blazing up hot and cooling down like a bonfire in the wind. But _this_ voice – this voice was Nick clear-eyed and steeling himself to take head-on the reality of whatever trouble he saw coming. It just about brought Jarrod to tears, because it was also obvious to him that the reality was breaking Nick's heart. _You are so brave, my brother_ , he thought, and then he turned to his mother, who stood motionless, swaying slightly, taking in what she had heard.

Victoria opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. It was abundantly clear that this was not an off-the-cuff speculation; her sons looked worn-out and utterly grief-stricken. And if Heath had also just learned this – well, it was pretty certain from what she had seen and heard that **_that_** hadn't gone well, to say the least.

Speechless still, in her mind she turned to the one person who would know, the one who could no longer answer for himself, or answer to those he left behind. A person she had honored and trusted, and not only to be her husband.

 _I trusted you to be a father to my children._

 _Tom…?_

 _Tom, please, let this not be true, dear God, tell me this isn't true –_

"Mrs. Barkley?"

She jumped, startled by the gentle, but unexpected voice. Moshe had approached cautiously, seeing that the intense family discussion of the night before appeared to be continuing. He was very concerned, though, and felt he had to interrupt.

"Mrs. Barkley, Audra is missing."


	40. Chapter 39 - Grace

_Through many dangers, toils and snares_

 _We have already come._

 _T'was grace that brought us safe thus far_

 _And grace will lead us home,_

 _And grace will lead us home_

 _Amazing Grace, Traditional_

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, April, 1859_**

It was dusk when the supply wagon rumbled into the clearing, the driver cautiously navigating the last steep, narrow, section of trail at the verge of the pine woods. He had heaved an audible sigh of relief when the small cabin came into view through the trees; right up until that moment he had not quite trusted the Negro woman's directions to turn off the main trail to Strawberry onto this barely-there track up through the woods. Didn't look to him like there'd be any kind of homestead to be found up here, or even a passable track, but there it was, and he was happy soon to be rid of his two odd passengers. _A blind kid and a Negro woman in a burned-out Indian village, holding on to each other like they's family,_ he kept thinking. _I never saw such a thing. And why'd the boss's number one son think it was so all-fired important to ride these two up to Strawberry? But I guess that Jarrod fella don't fall too far from the tree. Those Barkleys – they get it in mind to help someone, they're gonna help 'em, come Hell or high water, and no one can tell 'em different._

As they pulled up in front of the small, bare, but clean and well-kept cabin, the driver wondered where the menfolk were, and whether they'd be White, or Negro – _Heck, maybe the menfolk are Chinee. Wouldn't that be a hoot?_ He chuckled to himself at that. He wasn't going to make it to Pinecrest before dark, but he wanted at least to make it into Strawberry and stay at a hotel instead of roughing it.

Hoping there'd be someone who could take the gimpy kid off his hands as soon as possible, he glanced back to ask the Negro woman about the menfolk, but she was busy telling the boy they were home, her voice warm and happy and excited. He sighed impatiently and looked again toward the cabin – and froze. His heart leaped hammering into his throat at the sight of a double-barreled shotgun aimed directly at his face. It was held by a tall, dark-haired woman who clearly intended no mercy for anyone who threatened her home or family.

"Rachael, child, put that down – this nice man gave us a ride. Look who I found."

The dark-haired woman turned to the Negro woman, gasped, and tears filled her eyes. She seemed barely able to speak for a moment. "Heath -? Oh, Hannah, you found him, you found him, oh, honey, are you hurt -?" She flew to the back of the wagon, calling for Leah, weeping, hugging the Negro woman, and running her hands over the blind kid as though she wasn't sure he was really there. A few seconds later, a very pretty blonde woman appeared at the cabin door, screamed in joy, and ran over as well. The driver just watched. Part of him did feel moved by the display of relief and obvious affection, but so much of the rest of the picture just didn't make sense to him, and he just wanted to get away. There was something unnatural about that blind kid, about all of them together, and it bothered him that he couldn't tell who was what to who, and who was in charge. Or maybe not _that_ , exactly. What bothered him was that it was the _Negro_ woman who seemed to be in charge.

He didn't offer to help move the boy into the house, and when the blond woman asked, he grudgingly carried the kid to the front porch and put him down on the step. No how was he going in the house. Then he hurried away, looking forward to a whiskey and a meal around folks where he could figure out who was who.

A few hours later it was full dark, and Heath was drowsy. His leg and his head were aching fiercely, but his belly was full of warm chicken broth, and he was pretty sure he could see some colors now, though it was hard to tell in the dim lamplight. He was home, Hannah had found him and brought him home. _I'm not lost. Hannah said so. I'm not lost. But what about those men – what if they come back? What if **I** bring them back -? What if it's me?_

Leah knelt by his cot and he breathed in her familiar scent of soap and pine wood. She stroked his hair from his forehead, and tucked him in, in a way she hadn't done for many years, not since he was maybe six. He didn't mind it right then, her tucking him in like he was little. But he still had to say something.

"Mama – I'm sorry – I'm sorry I brought those men down on you. They said it was 'cause of me - it was my fault. I don't want –"

"Hush, baby, no, it is not your fault. Those men are animals, it has nothing to do with you."

"But what if I never can see any more like I used to? How am I gonna take care of you and Aunt Rachael and Hannah -?"

"Heath, honey, you're home. That's all that matters right now. And your eyes are getting better, you told me so yourself. So don't you fret." She kissed his cheek and stood, smoothing the front of her dress and placing an extra blanket at the foot of his cot in case the night got cold. The profound worry on her face as she looked at her son belied her reassuring words.

"Mama?" He sat up again in the bed. She could see how hard he was trying to see her, his eyes wide and searching.

"Yes, baby?"

Searching. Trying to **_see_** her. "Why - why d'you love me so much, Mama? I don't bring you nothin' but trouble."

She suddenly felt she might burst into tears, but she stubbornly kept her tone businesslike. " ** _Anything_** _,_ Heath. It's important to try to speak properly. **_Anything_** but trouble. And that's not true. You bring me lots of things, young man, and I don't mean just your pay from the livery, or your catch for dinner, or firewood for the stove." Leah flushed, surprised to feel her temper rising. The days of not knowing if he was alive or dead were weighing heavily on her, and that agony brought an uncharacteristically angry edge to her scolding. "You hear me? You bring me love and joy, more joy than anything else in the whole world, and **_don't_** you forget it! I don't care if you're blind as a bat." She stood over him, hands on hips. "Do you hear me?" she demanded again.

Caught off guard by her outburst, Heath flushed slightly and looked down. "Yes, ma'am," he said dutifully. She scowled down at him for a moment, as though she intended to say something else, then sighed and shook her head, gathering herself to go back to the kitchen.

"I might be blind, but I ain't **_deaf_** ," he muttered under his breath as she started to turn away.

She stopped, paused, and turned back, looking down at him suspiciously.

" ** _Ain't_**? Really, Heath. All the time Rachael spends teaching you, and you sound like a hillbilly. Speak correctly. **_I am not_** deaf."

He kept his head down, but now he was grinning. "I reckon that's true, Mama. **_You_** ain't deaf neither."

She couldn't help but laugh. She leaned down to speak softly in his ear with all the musical drawl of her Kentucky upbringing. "No, **_I_** ain't deaf neither, baby, and you'd best remember that. Now go to bed." Then she kissed him good night and walked away, roughly drying her eyes with her cotton sleeve.

* * *

 ** _Outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874_**

"Missing -?" Victoria found herself again briefly speechless, as a rapid-fire series of possible scenarios stormed through her mind. _She's fine, she's just wandered out of sight looking for a private spot to wash up. She left the campsite for some reason and is injured somewhere nearby. She's decided to go look for Ilsa on her own. She's been attacked by bandits. She's decided she should be helping down in the camp and is even now exposing herself to potentially fatal illnesses._

This last scenario seemed entirely possible, based on what Victoria knew of her daughter, especially because there were children suffering.

Nick and Jarrod, each working through their own version of this thinking process, now turned, with Victoria, to Moshe, and nearly buried him with questions, most of which he couldn't answer. Moshe had barely been introduced to these three, and unlike the two youngest Barkleys, so far this mother and sons he had seen in only in various states of emotional upheaval. He reminded himself that they were upset, they most likely were not always so intense and demanding, and so he did his best to tell what he knew about Audra, which wasn't much. He had gone looking for Audra this morning with questions about Nox's care and feeding, because clearly Peter was not yet ready to resume that job. Moshe found her nowhere in the camp. He knew that with being out on the trail and traveling in such dangerous times, this absence was cause for immediate alarm.

Nick restrained his mother from charging out immediately on horseback to begin hunting for her daughter. He remained admirably calm, and suggested he first work outward from her tent to see what tracks he could find. All three of them riding out immediately could very likely obscure whatever signs she might have left. Victoria reluctantly agreed, then debated with herself whether she should send Jarrod down to the camp to either look for Audra, or let John know she was missing.

"No, no – just wait, see what Nick finds –" Victoria was pacing around the fire, intermittently talking to herself in an effort not to fly into futile, frantic activity of one sort or another. She had retrieved her rifle from her tent, and she checked it again to make sure it was loaded. She wanted it close at hand when Nick and Jarrod rode out to search. She realized the protection of the camp would fall to her once her two sons were gone.

"Victoria -?" Hekeke's soft voice broke through her distraught rumination. "I overheard – we do not know where Audra is?"

"No, Hekeke, we don't. Not since just after midnight, when I sent her to go sleep. We don't know when she disappeared, though Moshe thinks he saw her by the horses around three in the morning."

"Nick is looking for tracks?"

"Yes."

"May I wait with you to see what he finds? I wanted to heat up some mush for my little ones. They slept well, and their appetites seem to be coming back."

"Oh, yes, yes, bring them over to be warm, it's still a bit chilly –" Victoria was quickly drawn into Hekeke's concerned but calm manner and the inevitabilities of caring for small children, just as Hekeke knew she would be. As they waited, Victoria made breakfast and coffee, and talked with the Miwok woman, and made sure Moshe and Peter had plenty to eat. She heard Nick call to Jarrod when he picked up Audra's tracks near the tether line. The two of them mounted up and head out to follow. Victoria watched them with worried eyes until they were out of sight. Hekeke took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"We will wait with you."

"We too, Mrs. Barkley," came a soft voice. She looked up, surprised, to see Peter, making his way forward slowly with the use of a pair of crutches and Moshe's arm around his waist. Moshe eased him down to sit near the fire. Peter looked off in the direction the two brothers had disappeared. "Nox could find her," he said finally.

"Nox?" Victoria wondered. "How?"

Unexpectedly, it was Hekeke who answered. "Among my people whose villages are – were - in the low country and along the ocean, they learned that horses can track by scent as well as dogs, even better maybe over big open distances. We can no longer live in the open, as we did in the past, and most of the villages of the valley and the coast have been destroyed. But horses led our hunters to game over many, many miles, to hunt food that the horses - unlike dogs - don't even eat. Why not even more could Nox lead you to find someone she loves?"

 _Nox could find her._ Victoria stood and looked over to where Nox was tethered. The mare, indeed, seemed to be restless and watchful, whuffing at the cool morning air, her attention directed to the south where Nick and Jarrod had last been seen riding into the hills. Victoria remembered Audra telling her about how Nox had found Heath in the mountains after they had been ambushed, and how the mare had protected him and tried to keep him warm until Audra and her brothers and John could get to him. Audra had said that was the first time any of them had been able to ride her – Heath had been mostly unconscious, but Nox allowed Audra and Jarrod put Heath on her back, and with Audra riding behind holding him steady, Nox had carried them across the river and back to camp.

 _Would she let me ride her to find Audra? I haven't really spent any time with the horse, she barely knows me. But even if she did let me, I can't leave Hekeke and Moshe here alone with these children and that poor young man. Perhaps I should just turn her loose and let her go on her own? But then how would Nick and Jarrod know where she had gone…?_ Victoria wrung her hands, feeling she might just scream from the worry and infuriating lack of options. _Dammit, John, I need you!_

"Moshe." Peter put his hand on the older man's arm. Moshe had been watching Victoria, an expression of profound empathy on his face. He turned at Peter's touch.

"Yes, _boytchik_ , what is it?" he said gently.

"Bring me over to Nox – or – maybe easier, bring her over here?" Moshe nodded and rose without hesitation and hurried to retrieve the horse. Peter looked up at Victoria. "Mrs. Barkley, do you have something of Audra's that would carry her scent, like a scarf, or a shirt? I'm pretty certain Nox doesn't need any reminder, but just to be sure –"

"Yes, yes –" She ran to Audra's tent, returning quickly with one of Audra's bandanas in her hand. She handed it to Peter, looking anxiously from him to Nox, who had come to stand close beside the boy. He took up his crutches and made an effort to stand. Victoria immediately put her arm around him to help, and he thanked her as he leaned against Nox and stroked the thin white blaze on her face. As he showed the mare the bandana he murmured to her in Dutch, then in English, asking her to find Audra and bring her back to them. Victoria watched, mesmerized, as Nox whickered and danced lightly, giving every indication she was ready and eager to carry out her task. She reached out and stroked a careful hand along the mare's muscular back. _Seventeen hands at least,_ Victoria's experienced eye told her. _She's well taller than me at her withers. Can she find my daughter? Find her and come back safe, Nox, please -_

Hekeke had come to stand beside her, also studying the mare as if deep in thought. She turned to Victoria, started to speak, hesitated – then she seemed to make a decision. "Victoria, I will go with Nox to find Audra. You should stay here and keep watch."

"But, Hekeke, your children -? And what if a patrol catches you out there?"

"My children will be safe with you, as yours will be safe with me. Nox I will trust to find the path I need to follow." She looked up at the mare and her grave expression gave way to a laugh. "Trust her to carry me, yes, once I get up there. I'll need a step up."

"What about a saddle, and a bridle?"

Hekeke grinned at Victoria. "I don't think I'll be telling this horse which way to go. She has a mane. I'll be holding on to that." She knelt down and hugged her children tight, telling them to behave for Victoria until she got back.

Victoria gave the young woman a boost onto Nox's back, thinking she made an impressive figure up there, perched upon the majestic horse in her deerskin clothing, her long black hair loose down her back. She wondered also at herself: this plan seemed a little crazy, and yet it seemed right. She hoped she was not making a terrible decision in her worry and desperation, and that she was not losing her judgement in the face of everything that had happened over these few days. "Take care, Hekeke, be very careful – come back safe."

Hekeke blew a kiss to her two children, who seemed very excited that their mother was going to rescue Audra. She smiled down at Victoria with a twinkle in her eye. "I can already imagine the stories Husu will spin from this adventure." She nodded to Peter. He lifted his hand from the mare's neck and let her know it was time to go. He stayed standing as long as he could, his eyes on the horse and rider until they were lost to view, finally sinking back down to his seat with a quiet noise of pain. Victoria and Moshe and the children had also watched until they were out of sight; now they turned to each other and settled in to wait.


	41. Chapter 40 - Thunder Out of Season

_Conspiracies_

 _Like thunder-clouds, should in a moment form_

 _And strike, like lightning, ere the sound is heard._

 _Dowe, "Sethona"_

* * *

 ** _South of Sonora, California, dawn, December 2, 1874_**

"Alright, girl, mount up."

The hard, rough hands that had been painfully gripping her upper arms now shoved her forward. She was blindfolded, and her wrists were bound in front of her by a length of rope that her abductor had then wrapped around her waist, making it impossible for her to bring her hands up to balance or protect herself if she fell. She cried out as she felt herself propelled forward into blackness; she stumbled and would have fallen, but came up instead against a horse's flank and the nauseating mold-and-sweat smell of a saddle and gear that hadn't been cleaned – ever. She tried to turn away from the rank odor as she straightened up, but the man was upon her then, pinning her back against the horse and breathing whiskey-soaked threats in her ear. His hands seemed to be everywhere. He pressed himself against her and laughed, and Audra was suddenly nothing but furious.

"Get – off – me -!" She twisted to one side and tried stomping on one of his feet, with some success. She won herself a little bit of room to maneuver, but he quickly wrapped both arms around her and began to bear her down with his weight. Her knee came down painfully onto the rocky ground. She thrashed furiously, and was gratified to hear a hiss of pain when her head connected solidly with what she thought might be his nose. Her celebration was brief, however. He drew back and punched her in the stomach, twice. Stunned and gasping like a fish out of water, she fell face down on the ground.

She heard him spit a few times and curse, and she entertained a passing hope that she had broken his nose. Then she cried out again in pain as he pulled her up by her hair and pushed her again toward the horse. He put her foot in the stirrup.

"I said, mount up, girl." His voice sounded slightly muffled and nasal now, but even more vicious. He mounted up behind her, took the reins, and kicked the horse into a gallop, heading east into higher, rockier ground.

Jolted, unable to see or anticipate the horse's movement, Audra curled forward over the pain in her ribs and fought down a panicky feeling that she was going to suffocate. _Just give it a minute, you remember that time you got thrown barrel racing and landed right on the fence? I remember - Father picked me up and held me and joked that I'd knocked the wind so far out of myself he had to send my brothers to go see where it landed. He made me laugh and next thing I knew I could breathe again. Father…No, I'm **not** thinking about him right now. I'll think about Nick. _ _Nick can track us, I know he can – I bet Nick and Jarrod are coming after me already – oh, please hurry. Please – Mother – what's going to happen if I can't fight him off –?_

* * *

Several miles to the northwest, Colonel Harrison Morgan trotted cautiously up a little used trail and emerged from a clump of trees not far from where Audra had been forced up onto the horse. He did not see what he expected to see – in fact he saw no one at all, and so he rode forward, leaning down to examine the ground in the dim but growing light. Sitting back, he frowned and scanned the hills rising to the east. They seemed to grow even darker and more inscrutable as dawn lit the sky behind the mountains. Something wasn't right.

Morgan was a man with great confidence in himself, and even more so when he was sure of what he wanted. When he could see his objective clear, there were times Morgan would have moments of almost ecstatic clarity, moments when he would be suffused with an almost godlike feeling of unstoppable momentum and direction. Such a feeling was rising in him now. Something wasn't right, but when he felt like this, nothing could slow him down or get in his way. He spurred his horse up the grade, following the tracks.

* * *

The man steered the horse on a zigzagging path through increasingly rocky, steep terrain, winding through short narrow ravines and cold, bubbling creeks. Every strike of a hoof on stone or splash in water make Audra's heart sink, knowing their tracks were becoming more obscure with each step. He knew it, too – she could feel it in the rude arm he had wrapped around her waist and his eager laughter as she continued to try to twist away from his groping hand.

"Almost there, rich girl." he hissed in her ear. "I've had me a change of plans. I think you broke my nose, and I think I need a bonus for dragging you outta that camp. So I ain't making my delivery on time, no ma'am. This time I'm takin' mine **_first_**." He pulled the horse up abruptly, dismounted, and once again yanked on Audra's hair to pull her off the horse and onto the ground. But there was one hazard he hadn't counted on.

Audra **_hated_** having her hair pulled. As old as sixth grade she had been sent home from school for pummeling a cheeky boy who thought it would be funny to pull her hair. She hated it so much, even her brothers – who were willing otherwise to tease, torment, and wrestle her into submission as much as any normal brothers would – even they had learned not to pull Audra's hair, unless of course they wanted to precipitate a row that would bring down the roof and get them **_all_** in big trouble.

This dire, horrible, terrifying situation was no exception. Still blindfolded, sore, and winded again from landing hard off the horse, nonetheless, Audra came up off the ground in a full-throttle rage. The man had begun to lean forward, eager to pin the girl to the ground; instead he was met with the full force of her shoulder driving into his solar plexus as she surged upward and roared like an angry mountain lion. He grunted, sucked wind, and staggered backward, tripping over a rock and slamming his head nicely on the ground. Following the sound, Audra kicked him as hard as she could, then staggered herself toward the sound of the horse. She dearly wanted to grab the dazed man's sidearm, but he was still moving, and she couldn't risk him getting a grip on her again. She knew she wouldn't have a chance if he got her pinned down.

Keeping her shoulder in contact with the horse, she rolled around to his off side and frantically rubbed her head against him until she had the bandanna pushed off. Blinking her eyes to clear them, she got a quick look at her attacker in the dim light. He was cursing and trying unsteadily now to rise. Right under her nose, in the saddle scabbard, was a loaded Winchester, but with her arms tied at her waist she couldn't reach high enough to pull it out.

 _I'll have to run for it. There's no other option._

She didn't hesitate. She turned and ran, knowing she was at a huge disadvantage, knowing it was likely she would lose this race. She never expected that the tables would turn as they did.

Marco staggered to his feet, his head spinning. He could feel warmth trickling down the back of his neck from what was probably an ugly laceration on the back of his scalp. He took a step toward his horse, but then had to drop to his knees and vomit a few times. He groaned, wiped his mouth, and started again for his horse. _Goddamn rich girl. Oh, am I gonna make you suffer._ His shoulder ached fiercely where she had shot him, back in November when he and Jasper and their crew bushwhacked her and her brother and that bastard on the trail to Strawberry. Jasper'd cut him loose after that shootout, that rat, Jasper didn't care whether Marco would live or die, he just cut him loose and fare-thee-well, boy, see ya.

Well he _did_ nearly die, far as he was concerned. Twice that same night, as he was bleeding and hoping his horse could bring him somewhere with booze and a doctor, he was threatened and frankly terrified by men he met on the way. First it was the rich girl's other brother, the big scary one. Marco told **_him_** where the ambush was, and got free without too much of a beating. Then if that wasn't enough, further down the trail he ran into two of the scariest marshals he'd ever met. They extracted everything he could tell them about Jasper's gang, gave him a sip of water for his trouble, and let him go. After that he drifted. Bleeding, fevered, and shaking from lack of alcohol, he moved in a southwesterly direction, wanting vaguely to avoid Frank Sawyer's turf. He passed out in the middle of Main St. in Jamestown, and soon after found himself the guest of Sheriff Peale, surely one of Satan's senior demons, in Marco's opinion, and Marco had ample basis for comparison.

Well, here he was again, bleeding and _puking_ this time, courtesy of Miss Audra Barkley. He didn't care what he'd agreed to do for Peale or what plans he'd made with that Colonel Morgan. Marco intended to have Miss Barkley for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was feeling sick, and his vision was doubled, but he could see her running away. She'd be easy to catch with her hands tied like that. He moved to go after her on foot. _Time for breakfast, rich girl._

 _She is a looker, this rich girl,_ he though as he hunted her, her slim, staggering form coming in and out of view and easy to spot in the pine woods. _All that blond hair, and that pretty face. I don't think her face is gonna be too pretty when I'm done with her – unless she cooperates, of course, but how likely is that? Morgan ain't gonna like it if she's not pretty, but the hell with him. Time for payback. Payback for that other pretty, pretty blond girl I wanted a taste of, over the summer. That horse, that crazy big black horse – that horse stopped me getting that girl, didn't she? The horse went crazy, and that damned Jasper told me to keep off the girl, 'cause **she** was gonna control the horse. And what happened? Horse damn near flattened all of us, girl got away, and we sold the horse for a few bucks. It all goes back to that goddamned crazy horse –_

He heard thunder, and glanced around, confused. Too cold for lightning, too warm for an avalanche, unless it's an earthquake, or a mining dam give way? Marco saw that flash of blond hair just up ahead. He smiled, and turned again to take up the chase – but then the thunder arrived.


	42. Ch 41 - The Acting of a Dreadful Thing

_Between the acting of a dreadful thing,  
_ _And the first motion, all the interim is  
_ _Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;  
_ _The genius and the mortal instruments  
_ _Are then in council; and the state of man,  
_ _Like to a little kingdom, suffers then  
_ _The nature of an insurrection._

 _William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"_

* * *

 _Honor lies in the mane of a horse._

 _Herman Melville_

* * *

 ** _Morning, South of Sonora, California, December 2, 1874_**

Marco's trail was easy to follow initially, even in the low morning light. He was riding hard and making no effort to cover his tracks. Morgan wondered about that. There were signs of a scuffle back at the rendezvous point, but then clearly both of them had ridden the one horse up this way, and fast, until the terrain forced them to slow down. Fast and careless: Morgan had to suspect that Marco was riding angry, and that didn't bode well for the headstrong Miss Barkley.

Even when the ascent grew tortuous and rocky, Morgan continued to pick out the signs of Marco's trail without much difficulty. He would find the girl presently – that was a given. She was the object of this morning's quest, she was the prize he sought, and he imagined himself omniscient as he spotted one mark after another that led him to her.

He reached the clearing and Marco's ground-tied horse. More signs of struggle, and blood on the ground. Stomach contents, as well, redolent of booze and chewing tobacco. _Interesting_. _Could it be Marco who was wounded and sick?_ Much as he didn't appreciate this change in plans and the obvious evidence that Marco had gone rogue relative to their prior agreement, Morgan was looking forward to hearing the story of this little outing. He was sure it would be amusing. _It would appear the girl did him some damage and ran off. Headstrong, indeed. I wonder why she didn't take his horse or rifle._ Morgan turned his mount north at an easy pace, following the foot trail of the two and moving toward the faint sounds up ahead that probably belonged to Marco, crashing along in pursuit of Audra.

It was not long before he had them both in sight. No longer needing to follow a trail, he began to circle around in order to approach them from the east with the sun at his back. He expected Marco to be uncooperative. He could already see that on this errand, at least, the man had done a poor job of dressing himself like an Indian. He was dark, to be sure, and his hair was jet black, but his clothes had become a filthy hodgepodge of ranch hand and Indian garb, making him look like a drunken, down-on-his-luck mountain man. This was, of course, not far from the truth.

Morgan planned to position himself, at some point, between the girl and the bandit "Indian". When the proper moment arrived, he intended to kill Marco in "defense" of the Barkley daughter. Morgan knew he'd have to get rid of Marco eventually, and relatively soon. He was a faulty and unpleasant tool, and in possession of potentially damaging information. Well, it seemed "relatively soon" had arrived.

He chose his path of approach and urged his horse into a canter. Audra, he could see now, had been struggling along with her wrists bound to a rope at her waist. That explained why she had foregone the rifle and horse. He was quite impressed that she had managed to escape a man as big as Marco with such a handicap. She had stopped at a rock outcropping and was abrading the rope in an attempt to free her hands. Remarkably, she succeeded, but by then Marco was virtually upon her and growing more steady on his feet with every second. Curious, Morgan reined in and hung back for a moment to watch; it occurred to him that some intimate time for the girl in Marco's hands would make his own intervention that much more welcome. What actually happened next, however, was completely unexpected. He watched in dumb surprise; the wave of clarity and purpose that had been bearing him forward broke, dissipated, and swiftly receded.

* * *

 _So close, so close, I've got you now._ Marco lunged forward to grab her collar, but damned if she didn't put on some speed and slip right out of her coat, leaving him to stumble and fall on all fours once again. Snarling, sweating despite the chilly air, he shook his black hair out of his face and started to rise, scanning ahead to get that pretty little alley cat back in his sights.

What he saw instead made him question his sanity; it made his mouth go dry as gravel and caused his bladder to empty unnoticed down his pant leg. A raging Archangel of vengeance was thundering down upon him: it was that giant dark horse, once again, this time bearing upon her back a woman with flying black hair. A wild, ululating battle cry filled the air; he cowered, his mind suddenly awash with all the leering, toothy, brimstone gargoyles with which the padres had filled his childhood nightmares, monsters waiting to receive his damned soul. Nox struck him without pausing in her charge. He flew through the air weightless as a scarecrow, and landed some distance away, gasping for air and staring mutely at the sky. He felt the ground shake as she came about, and he wondered if she was coming to finish him off.

Death didn't arrive, not then; the mare galloped on past him where he lay. He heard female voices, exclamations of relief, breathless laughter. The laughter he heard in his own mind was not so light and joyful; it was the vicious giggling of demons that echoed between his ears. Numbly and without articulate thought, Marco sat up, ignoring the pain that was shooting through his chest. He got onto his knees, paused for a rest, and then managed to push himself to standing. He pulled out his sidearm, cocked it, and pointed it in the direction of the two women and the horse. He didn't care who he hit, just so long as he could shoot at least one of them. Still stunned and shaky, his first bullet went wild, and his targets took cover.

 _I got all day to get this right,_ he thought stubbornly, and started forward, pulling back the hammer again.

A pistol shot crackled from the woods to the east, and a bullet took a chunk out of Marco's right arm. His own pistol flew up and out of sight, and the impact spun him around and sent him once more to the ground. The pain was immense, and this time, he decided he'd just stay down. A silhouetted figure of a man on horseback approached and loomed over him, a gun in his right hand. Marco couldn't make out the face, with the sun in his eyes, but of course he knew who it was.

"You shot me, Morgan," he complained, squinting up at him. "I wasn't gonna _kill_ the girl – unless – 'less it happened by accident – y'know – c'mon. I was mad. Wasn't gonna mess her up too much, I don't think, maybe just a little –" He broke off from his rambling, eyes going wide as the pistol came up to point at him and he realized Morgan intended to put him down right then and there. "Wait – wait, Colonel, what's – what are you –"

"Excuse me, soldier?" Audra called out, and Morgan frowned fleetingly in disappointment. He holstered his gun and wheeled around to see the two women riding double on the back of what he now recognized to be a gorgeous Belgian Black. _Well, **that's** an unusual sight, _he remarked to himself.

He allowed his genuine surprise and admiration of the horse to lend authenticity to his greeting. Some females were very good at detecting false emotion, and he thought it best to be careful and attentive to detail. He dismounted with his usual grace and retrieved Marco's sidearm. He then approached the women, leading his horse by the rein. He spoke to Audra, ignoring the Digger woman for the time being.

"Are you alright? Are you injured? How did you come to be up here in the hills? Are you lost?" His voice was full of concern and surprise at finding a young lady in this remote place.

"We're fine now," Audra responded brightly. "I wanted to thank you for your help. When he started shooting at us, I mean." She smiled down at him.

 _God, Peale wasn't exaggerating. She is incredibly beautiful, and clearly completely out of control. What would it take to saddle break her, I wonder? Oh, wouldn't that be something –_

He smiled fondly to himself at the idea. Turning that smile up to her, he said, "I have to admit I'm at a loss for words. I'm very grateful I was in the right place at the right time. Your horse is a beauty. Is she Friesian? I don't think I've ever seen one except back East."

"Why, yes, she is. But she's not mine. I took care of her for a while, and now I'm bringing her back to her family."

Morgan took a step forward, intending to lay an admiring hand on the horse's flank. Nox snorted and danced sideways, her ears back.

"Best not," Audra cautioned. "As you can see, she's very protective, and very suspicious of strangers."

"I see," he said, retreating a step. "Perhaps I'll have a chance to get to know her better. Can I escort you back to…?"

"If you'd like. I want to get back to camp as soon as possible, my family will be frantic, and my brothers are probably out tracking me already."

"I insist. This is dangerous territory these days." He gestured over his shoulder at the wounded man behind him. "Indian raiders like this one have been very active in these parts, committing terrible crimes." He looked at the Miwok woman as he spoke, but her stony expression did not flicker. "Speaking of which, may I assume this one belongs to you?"

"Yes, of course," Audra replied tersely. Morgan thought for a moment he saw the Digger woman wince, but then thought perhaps he imagined it – though Audra did seem to have tightened her already fierce grip on the woman's hand. The woman was a bit old to be indentured, but maybe she had some special value to the family. No rush - he could leave that question alone for now.

The uncomfortable silence was interrupted by the receding sound of a galloping horse. They all looked up, surprised. Audra gasped. "He's gone -!"

Morgan swore under his breath as he turned and confirmed it – Marco, that weasel, had slithered off and escaped. He sighed. He despised loose ends, and Marco was a very big loose end. "Let's get you back to your family, Miss Barkley," Morgan said solicitously as he mounted his own horse. "That's the most important thing. My men can go after that Indian later."

As he turned his horse, preparing to head back down toward the camp, a look of puzzlement and suspicion passed between the two women. Audra had been on the verge of informing the officer that her attacker was in no way an Indian, but now she held back and decided to play along. She narrowed her eyes at the officer's back as he rode ahead. _How did you know my name?_


	43. Chapter 42 - Native Heart

_Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,_

 _But seeming so, for my peculiar end.  
For when my outward action doth demonstrate  
The native act and figure of my heart  
In complement extern, 'tis not long after  
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve  
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am._

 _William Shakespeare, "Othello"_

* * *

Audra's mind was racing as Nox carried her and Hekeke smoothly back to the family's campsite. Hekeke was seething, Audra could tell by the tension in her arms around her waist. She encouraged Nox to hang back slightly behind the officer's mount so that they could ride unobserved. She knew they both needed some time to cool down. She wondered how the officer knew her name. She wondered why he hadn't introduced himself, and she wished she knew how to read the rank insignia on his impeccable uniform. Most of all, she worried over the fact that the officer kept insisting her attacker was an Indian, when by that point Audra had clearly recognized him as Marco, the man she had shot during the ambush in the Stanislaus.

She remembered Husu's words to Marshal Montana.

 _"These terrible crimes you describe, these are not my brother. I know it. He raids for food, for things his people need. He is not a killer and a rapist. But these awful things will be blamed on him, and if you do not bring him in, Marshal, these soldiers will kill him, and who knows how many others."_

Audra felt her anger building again. _I guess I've answered my own question: I know why he keeps insisting Marco is an Indian. I bet Marco's been riding all over this county committing horrible crimes so they could be blamed on Teleli. They want an excuse to hunt him and to kill him and any other Miwok in sight._

 _Even the ones in the camp? Where all those children are, and Heath, and Rivka -?_

She felt a chill suddenly and shuddered. Hekeke glanced at her, saw the look on Audra's face, and hugged her, hoping it would give them both some extra courage. Audra gave her a small encouraging smile. _A few more minutes and we'll be back in camp. Mother will fuss over us, and then she'll deal with this officer, I'm sure. She'll be able to see what he's about._

They heard horses approaching at a fast gallop, and Audra wanted to shout with joy at seeing her two brothers riding toward them. After a quick visual scan of the officer to convince themselves he wasn't an immediate threat, they pulled up on either side of Nox to hug their sister, hug Hekeke for finding her, and hear from them both what had happened and whether either of them were injured.

Audra frantically tried to think of a way she could surreptitiously communicate to her brothers what she had learned and suspected. This officer was here with an army; intuitively she knew her family was outnumbered and it was best not to share what they knew with any potential enemies. She decided, therefore, to throw herself, weeping, into Nick's arms. He reflexively pulled her close to comfort her; only a slight raise of his eyebrows revealed his surprise and concern as she whispered urgently in his ear. He rubbed her shoulders solicitously and gave Jarrod a meaningful look.

"There, there, little sister. Everything's OK. You're safe now. Look, Pappy's here too, everything's OK."

"Oh, Jarrod," Audra sniffed, laying her head on his shoulder so she could speak to him out of sight of the officer, who remained attentive though at a slight distance. Her brother frowned slightly at her words, but then looked gently at her as she straightened up. She smiled tearily at him. "Mother must be so worried, Pappy, isn't she? We're fine now with this nice officer who came along to help – we'll reach camp soon, but could you ride ahead and let her know? I want her to know as soon as possible."

"Sure, honey, we can do that – if you're sure you're OK with…" Jarrod turned to the officer, and broke off as he recognized him. His surprise served nicely to cover the alarm he felt, and he managed to greet him with crisp politeness. "Colonel Morgan, is it not? It's been quite a while. In fact, I believe you had just made rank of Major the last time we met. Do you remember my brother Nick?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Barkley, good to see you both," Morgan replied, shaking hands with them, pleased at their recognition and the civilized reception. _These are steady, respectable men. Commissioned officers during the war, also, if I remember rightly, unlike that bastard of Tom's we roped in as an enlisted stable hand before I sent him off to St. Louis. The bastard half-brother hanging around, and this messy, wild sister of theirs riding who-knows-where – it must be **such** an annoyance to these two. _He favored the brothers with a sympathetic look, and then addressed himself to Audra. "Miss Barkley, I apologize for not introducing myself. I recognized _you_ , of course. I had been informed that your mother was here on a charitable medical mission, though I must admit to some shock at coming across you out here in the wilds. Thank heaven I did!"

His smile was warm and genuine, and Audra felt a momentary flicker of doubt in her suspicions. _He is very handsome, and well-spoken, and he sits his horse beautifully,_ she mused. _He seems so genuine – could it be he is just misled and following the Governor's orders?_ As she considered this scenario, she pictured John looking out over the camp, putting his career and even his life on the line to oppose Morgan; she remembered Hekeke, Husu, and her brother Heath beaten to the ground by men under this officer's command. _No,_ she thought, as she returned his smile with a gracious nod. _No, he may be charming, but that only makes him that much more dangerous._

* * *

"I'll tell you what, Jarrod, I don't like riding away and leaving those two women with that well-dressed rattlesnake," Nick growled as they rode quickly ahead toward their campsite.

"Couldn't agree with you more, Nick." As soon as they were out of sight of the Colonel, they reined in. "Listen, I'm going to head right back to escort them the rest of the way, as soon as I let Mother know what's happened. It shouldn't take me more than half an hour. You just go pick up Marco's trail. We need to get to him before Morgan's men do."

* * *

 _The quality of mercy is not strain'd,  
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven  
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:  
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes._

 _William Shakespeare, "The Merchant of Venice"_

* * *

"Me'weh, Me'weh, we need your help, come see what we built!"

Heath surfaced from a deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of children calling for him. Rivka woke and stretched beside him, kissed his cheek, and murmured, "Guess nap time's over, cowboy. Let's rise and shine."

He stretched himself and sat up carefully, rolling his shoulders to test how sore he was going to be. _Not good, but not terrible,_ he concluded. _I can work with that._ The light filtering through the walls had shifted, and Heath's internal sense told him it was almost noon. They dressed quickly and descended from the loft, Rivka to return to her patients in the barn, and Heath to see what his latrine-building crew had been able to do while he was sleeping. He hugged Rivka close before they parted ways. He whispered his love for her and his pride in her strength and skill; her embrace and her warm hand that stroked through his hair felt like a benediction, and he marveled that he felt as steady and happy as he did, in such an embattled place and time.

Rivka smiled and blew Heath a kiss as a flock of sickly but eager children surrounded him with their chatter and pulled him outside. The children had been fed several decent meals, and they were bubbling over with more energy than they'd had in months. Heath grinned back at her, his hands being captive, and then allowed himself to be led away. Haja came to stand beside Rivka in the doorway. Two of the smaller, more agile children had leaped onto Heath's back as they crossed the yard, climbing him as if he were a tree to perch on his shoulders. They crowed their triumph and supremacy down to the other children and declared themselves Coyotes on the Mountain.

"Uh oh," Haja commented, her eyes twinkling.

"What?" Rivka responded. "Uh oh **_what_** , Haja?"

"You can't go calling yourself Coyote on the Mountain and not expect to be challenged," she explained seriously, her eyes still on the group crossing the yard. "Such a claim cannot go unanswered."

"And…?"

Haja chuckled. "Well, it appears - in this case – Heath is the mountain."

"What do you mean, he's the -–"

As she spoke, a battle cry rose up from the group of little ones, as they took up the challenge and launched themselves at Me'weh, intending to climb up and unseat the incumbent Coyotes. For his part, Heath had understood immediately what was going to happen as soon as the challenge was issued. He made a brief, half-hearted attempt to deflect what was coming his way, but he was already laughing too hard to be convincing, and he soon had to direct all of his attention to staying upright under the onslaught.

The children's objective quickly shifted from Coyote on the Mountain, to a game they appeared to have made up on the spot called Me'weh in a Tree, in which the whole group ganged up together to bring the big tricky squirrel down to the ground.

The laughter of the children lifted Haja's heart; it was a sound it seemed she hadn't heard in months. "If we were in our village and the young ones had made up such a game, we would probably be taking bets among ourselves to see how long Me'weh could stay on his feet," she grinned. "We do love to gamble." The two women looked on with amusement as the little kids started calling across the camp to some of the bigger boys and girls to come help; they came running willingly to jump into the fray and Heath, laughing, was brought to the ground in short order. Haja clapped her hands and called out praise to the children for their perseverance and conquest. "It is such a blessing, what you and Me'weh have done to help us. Me'weh does not have your skills or learning, but what he gives those children, it is medicine too. I hope he knows that."


	44. Chapter 43 - From War to War

_Alas! thou know'st not Cæsar's active soul,_

 _With what a dreadful course he rushes on_

 _From war to war. In vain has nature form'd_

 _Mountains and oceans t'oppose his passage;_

 _He bounds o'er all._

 _One day more_

 _Will set the victor thund'ring at our gates._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

It was a warm, pleasant December afternoon in the golden foothills around Sonora, but the gentle pine-scented breeze and birdsong received none of Colonel Morgan's attention as he descended toward the Indian holding camp. His eye took in the gleam of barbed wire and the rising plume of smoke from what appeared to be a pyre of some sort within the fenced area. Men were at work digging at the far western verge of the enclosure, presumably burying their dead. As he rode, Morgan was replaying in his mind the interactions he had just had with the Barkleys; he was weighing his options for how best to make use of that family; and most important, he was reviewing his strategy to neutralize, crush, or otherwise eliminate the man he was about to meet at the gate of the prison: Marshal John Smith.

Morgan was still puzzling over Victoria Barkley and her three children. He did not entirely understand their position or stake in this standoff that was rapidly taking shape. The girl had initially struck him as flighty and naïve; the two sons seemed cordial, competent, and appropriately protective of their womenfolk. Victoria Barkley, however, had received him with a controlled, regal courtesy that was daunting, though he was fairly sure he had concealed the transient loss of self-confidence she had provoked in him. She had spoken in eloquent and abstract terms of her family's Christian duty to provide comfort to the poor and outcast, especially as they entered the Christmas season. **_Surely_** such an experienced and successful man such as himself would understand this.

" _Of course we know that men of arms such as yourself, Colonel, who serve our country, often must face unhappy realities. You must execute our leaders' orders to achieve our nation's goals; you take on the difficult tasks that come with settling the frontiers. We – my family – consider it our task to mitigate where we can the suffering that we know is not your purpose or aim. We are here to help the women and children who are ill, for example – for surely **their** suffering is not your intent -?" _ _Victoria looked upon him with righteous gravity, eyebrows raised; a petite woman who somehow could create the illusion that she was taller than he. Audra's wide blue eyes were on him as well, sparkling with earnest tears._

 _He had stammered his agreement with everything Mrs. Barkley said, and found himself granting her family safe conduct and a right-of-way to access the camp with their medical supplies and support for Dr. Levi. He flushed slightly and felt his pulse speed up when this agreement won him a beaming, grateful smile from Audra. Her beauty was astonishing - it was inspiring – it was…he realized he wanted to just stand and stare at her in wonder. He then realized he **was** , in fact, standing and staring at her, and had to regain his composure with a conscious effort. _

Morgan had ridden away with an excited but uncomfortable feeling of having missed something important. He had attempted to sound out Mrs. Barkley on the topic of her new husband, who had clearly placed himself in opposition to Morgan on a path of disgrace and destruction. She had responded in grand philosophical terms, voicing a stoic acceptance that her husband might in the end fall defeated, still, she understood that all men of courage and honor must stand their ground.

The conviction with which she had spoken left Morgan unsettled and speculating. He **_wanted_** Audra. That was now a fact, he admitted to himself. He had assumed that with his destruction of Marshal Smith, the pursuit of the daughter would become problematic, and possibly futile. Yet Victoria Barkley seemed to look upon this confrontation dispassionately, as an inevitable aspect of a separate, masculine realm, and she gave no indication that she would regard Morgan as an enemy should he prevail against her husband.

And prevail he would, that was certain. He had arrived at a checkpoint on the trail. He reined in his horse and stared imperiously down at the soldiers who were snapping to attention for his review. The post officer leaped to stand by his stirrup and saluted smartly.

"At ease, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Report."

"Both arriving companies have pitched camp and reported in as ready, sir. No notable activity **_inside_** the holding area, however, we believe that a small group of men with provisions got past our patrols predawn to support the marshals already dug in. Intelligence suggests the new men are from Marshal Jim Roberts' crew, from Nevada, but it's not his whole detail, and he himself is not down at the fence."

"Roberts. Hmm. So where is he?"

"Unknown, sir."

"Anything else?"

"Four patrol squads are out tracking rogue Indians; there was a farm burned out nearby overnight, a family was attacked – pretty nasty business. No reports of sighting or contact yet."

Morgan nodded. Marco had been keeping busy. Time to put _that_ animal down, before he complicated things further. He returned the lieutenant's salute and continued on to the gate of the prison.

* * *

Seething, worried, relieved, Nick Barkley nevertheless spurred Coco up into the hills with a single-minded focus, backtracking to the point from which Marco had fled. The chocolate Palomino gelding, as always, moved willingly, so steady and attuned to his rider that Nick could keep virtually his whole attention on the trail he was seeking. Nick was certain that if any of Morgan's patrols got hold of Marco first, they'd kill him, and any useful information he had would be lost. For that reason, and that reason alone, Nick earnestly hoped to find that vicious murdering bandit still alive.

It didn't take long. Marco was feeling the effects of a concussion and blood loss from a deep scalp laceration and a bullet hole in his right arm. He was still alive, and still on his horse, but it would be generous to say that he was in any way **_riding_** the animal, much less evading pursuit or covering his tracks. He was drooped over the pommel of his saddle and only noticed Nick's approach at the last minute. Eyes widening in fearful recognition of the big scary Barkley brother, he managed to pull his Winchester out of the scabbard, but was unable to do anything other than point it weakly in Nick's general direction.

Nick plucked the rifle easily out of Marco's hand and stowed it behind his own saddle. Wrinkling his nose at the rank smell of the man, he grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him close, looking him in the eye with a cold, lethal glare. Marco swallowed convulsively.

"You put your hands on my sister," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper. It was not a question.

Marco nodded mutely.

"Look in my eyes, Marco. Do you see what I'd like to do to you?"

Another nod.

"I want you to keep that in mind, Marco. Keep that picture in your mind. Can you see it?"

Marco nodded once more, obediently.

"I'm bringing you to Sonora. Marshal Montana is going to be very interested in speaking with you."

Marco whimpered slightly, his eyes gone even wider.

Nick spoke slowly and clearly. "We're going to have a long conversation with you about Colonel Morgan, and Sheriff Peale, and about how long you've been robbing and burning and killing up here on the army payroll." He let go of Marco's jacket with an expression of distaste, and quickly relieved the man of a variety of other weapons, hidden and otherwise. He then tied Marco's wrists to his saddle horn and took up that horse's lead. As he turned them northeast toward Sonora, he scanned a worried eye over the surrounding terrain, vigilant for any sign of Morgan's patrols. He wasn't going to relax until he had safely deposited this murderer in Montana's lockup. "Let's go, Coco," he muttered, and they moved out.


	45. Chapter 44 - The Weeping Woman

_The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved._

 _Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?_

 _Oh, that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!_

 _Jeremiah 8:20 – 9:1_

* * *

 ** _North Fork, Tuolumne River, California, December 2, 1874_**

A cold wind gusted through the oak and pine forest, shaking loose droplets of rain and a scatter of dead leaves. Another gust, and a swirl of snow spun, paused, and then descended from the low, heavy gray sky. Sporadic at first, then steadier, flurries drifted down through the branches and melted upon the moving river and the mossy ground. A long, moaning cry of a woman rose up, lingered, then it too melted away into the hush of the forest.

Four men emerged from the trees. They moved silently, nearly invisible even as they stepped into the clearing, so completely did their clothing and skin paint blend into the colors of the forest. Their faces were marked in dark green and silver gray, as were their bare chests, arms and legs, giving them a ghostly, skeletal appearance. They froze, listening, as the woman's cry came again and then faded. One of the four stepped forward. His posture and expression were reverential; he raised a hand to the men behind him, gesturing for them to wait where they stood.

" _Osa Wakalali -?"_ Teleli called softly. He advanced more quickly now, toward what appeared to be only a dense clump of trees and underbrush. He moved a few hanging branches aside to reveal a door, and stepped down into a round, partially subterranean room with a thatched roof, almost perfectly camouflaged and hidden among the trees. In the low light, he could hear the woman, breathing rapidly, anticipating the next wave of pain. Ilsa sat on a bed of deerskins, cross-legged, rocking slowly with her bare arms wrapped around her gravid belly. She was slim, long-limbed, and big with child; her long wild blond hair twisted over her shoulders almost to her hips. Her face was pale, thin, and frowning as she focused on the feelings in her body. He hurried toward her. "Osa? What is it? Is it time -?"

The pain came again. She closed her eyes, rocking more deeply, moaning in rhythm with her swaying movement in a way that Teleli found mesmerizing. He hovered before her, wanting to ease her pain somehow, but uncertain, hesitant to take any action without her guidance.

The wave of pain passed, and she looked at him then. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her eyes were green, the color of the lichen that grew on the north face of the Sugar Pines that rose tall around them. As always, the sadness and silent strength in her eyes awed him; now, though, he saw fear, and his heart began to race.

"Osa -? What is it?"

"The pains started not long after you left last night," she said. "It's been steady, getting stronger, but there's something wrong. Teleli, something's wrong, I can feel it. The baby – she moves inside me, she's strong, but she's not – she's not coming down. She's not in the right place. I can feel it, but I don't know what to do. I'm scared –"

Teleli murmured reassuring words and brewed her some tea while he tried to think past his own rising terror. This strange sad spirit woman had come into his care in the heat of the summer, ravaged with grief; her only awareness, the only force driving her forward to survive, was that of the life growing inside of her. She existed solely to nurture that life, as though all other purpose or intent had been burned away from her, and this bone white essence was all that remained. When she first came, Teleli had imagined her as a ghost, a skeletal being who somehow could still bear life and hope.

Teleli found her roaming along the Tuolumne in late summer, mute and wild-eyed. She brought to his mind memories of that wounded, frightened, sightless boy they had found in the river all those years ago. That boy also had fought for his life, and his eyes had been too full of sadness and death and despair for one so young. With pain in his heart, Teleli had watched the boy struggle to control his fear when the White men rode away without him.

His father and uncles knew Teleli would not have left Me-weh behind for the scalp hunters. They tricked him into leaving the boy's side by saying Husu was lost. Teleli recognized the deceit and circled back, realizing too late that Husu would not leave the lost boy behind either. He had returned to his destroyed village sick unto death with the expectation that both boys were dead or stolen.

Me-weh and the dark-skinned woman had saved Husu from the burning, had cared for him and protected him until Teleli came back. In honor and remembrance of that day, Teleli had protected Ilsa, and fed and sheltered her.

She did not flee from him – she did not know where else she would go, and keeping the growing child within her safe had become her sole aim. Ilsa believed her family was lost to her. The horse thieves had told her Peter was dead, tossed like a ragdoll off a cliff into the dark. She had looked into Nox' eyes as she had knelt on the ground with a gun to her head, and she saw Nox surrender for her sake. Ilsa was not so naïve to think that these men would let her live, once they had her horse. But in that moment, Ilsa felt her unborn child move within her for the first time. She had known she was pregnant, but then, right then, she felt her baby move, and in the darkness of her loss, that proof of life became everything. Ilsa commanded Nox to fight back, her heart breaking even as she spoke the words, for she believed her beloved horse would fight to the death. And so Ilsa escaped with the child she carried, believing Peter and Nox had both been murdered in her defense.

She had come gradually to offer affection and care to Teleli and the men that followed him. She knew how to work leather, and she had learned how to cook and live in the rough during her trek across the country. She was kind, and gentle by nature, but the sadness never lifted, and she wept; every day, she wept.

Teleli and the other men of the Chakka viewed her with awe; some with compassion and hope, and some with fear and hate, believing her a harbinger of defeat. The hateful ones had not remained with Teleli. They left, one by one, either to join their kin on the reservation, or to be killed by the scalp hunters. The three men waiting outside, companions since childhood, were all that remained. Teleli, like the men who banded with him, had suffered a lifetime of horrors: slavery; the murder of loved ones; beatings; imprisonment; the dissolution of his village, his family and his way of life. Teleli no longer knew how to dream of returning to his wife and children. He daily struggled against despair, rage, and the intrusions of memory that shredded his hold on the present. He had taken in the Crying Woman and kept her safe; she, in turn, held to the life inside of her with a steadiness that had become an anchor point for him. The thought that he could lose her and the baby in the process of this birth terrified him beyond words.

He stepped back outside to face the waiting, worried men. "Something is wrong," he said without preamble. "The baby is not coming as she should. I need to get to Haja. Haja will know what to do."

* * *

 _And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,  
To burn the errors that these princes hold – _

_William Shakespeare, "Much Ado about Nothing"_

* * *

Victoria thought for moment her very bones might snap from the tension of her muscles and the vise-like control she had maintained during Colonel Morgan's brief visit in their camp. As she watched him ride away on his mission to destroy the man she loved, she attempted to take a few deep breaths, and felt her whole body begin trembling in the aftermath of confrontation. Her hands itched to take up her rifle and shoot the man off his horse before he got out of range. Her movement still unnaturally stiff, she turned and met Jarrod's silent gaze. His eyes were dark with rage, his mouth a drawn down line of anger. They each stared for a long moment into the mirrored reflection of their yearning for bloody vengeance. Then, by some mysterious alchemy of recognition and acceptance, the mindless rage faded enough to allow for rational thought – and her first thought was for her daughter.

"Audra, oh, Audra –" She felt her daughter fall sobbing into her arms, the girl finally letting out all the terror she had felt during the whole horrible experience. They both were shaking and crying now, and Jarrod came close to hold them as well. "Audra, you were so brave, so brave. Nick will catch that man and bring him to the marshals. Can you tell me everything that happened?" Her face wet, Victoria looked over to Hekeke, who was kneeling beside her children answering their questions. "Hekeke, I don't know how to thank you." The Miwok woman did not answer, but she smiled at them, sent a hard, flinty glance down the trail after the Colonel, and then turned her attention back to her children.

Audra allowed her mother to lead her over to the fire to fuss over her, which she did not, right now, mind in the least. She felt as though she could still feel that man's hands on her body, and she hoped if she talked about it, maybe she could start to get it out of her head. Right then she felt as if she would never sleep or be able to relax ever again. But she looked gratefully at Hekeke, and then past her to Moshe's wagon. Peter sat on the step and watched as Moshe brought Nox some water. _Nox, you found me. It was a fresh trail, yes, but horses scent the air to track. You might not need a trail to find Ilsa. You might just need the right conditions, and to get close enough. Surely you could find the woman who raised you from a baby._

* * *

 _He'll make a pretty figure in a triumph,  
And serve to trip before the victor's chariot._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

Morgan approached the gate of the internment camp, pleased to see that his instructions had been carried out. He had ordered that a sizable tent be set up roughly 30 yards from the stockade gate to serve as a neutral meeting point for "negotiations" to take place. Morgan felt staging was important, and disdained men who ignored such details. Such arrangements were a key part of the success of General Canby's assassination – Morgan had seen personally to the seating at the Modoc peace talks, as well as the size and structure of the meeting tent. He was certain the killing (and everything else that followed) would not have happened so cleanly without his care and forethought.

The Colonel did not actually expect much in the way of negotiations to occur in this standoff with the marshals. What he wanted was a neat, well-defined space within which he could inform Marshal Smith of his limited options; later on, Morgan intended to drag in that bastard stray dog that Smith had taken such an interest in, and eviscerate the boy right under the great marshal's nose. This was not an absolute necessity to the politics of Morgan's plan, but it had an irresistible emotional value. _Peale did have a disturbingly accurate eye for what might get under a man's skin_ , Morgan thought, as he remembered their meeting in Stockton.

 _"The Marshal knows you are coming, Colonel. John Smith, the very man who struck away your promotion just as it was in your hand. The man who challenged the rightful decisions you made in wartime and used that mongrel's pathetic story to humiliate you in front of your commanders. Marshal John Smith will see you, Colonel, coming to crush that camp and everyone inside it, and he too will not be able to resist. He will stand right in your path and he will fall under your boots."_

Smith had embarrassed and sabotaged him. He had called Morgan's military judgement and impartiality into question, just as the Board was reviewing his promotion to Brigadier General, the position vacated by Canby's sudden demise. At Smith's request, the Board reviewed and reversed Morgan's decision regarding the dishonorable discharge of Cpl. Heath Thomson in 1865. Not only did they then recommended Thomson for an honorable discharge at the rank of Staff Sergeant; they endorsed the mongrel for a Medal of Honor, all of which Thomson – now Barkley - received by letter from War Secretary Belknap himself. The Board's next action was to pass Morgan over for promotion, with sincere regrets, of course. Canby's post was filled by another candidate, and Morgan was left to continue his current mission of California Indian eradication.

Morgan rather hoped Smith would not choose a pitched battle to the death; he wanted very much to make a long, public, political sacrifice of the marshal. His close association with the Barkley bastard - so recently incarcerated and hardly free of suspicion and ill-repute – could only enhance that process. The Governor, the District Attorney, and Congressman Mills had all indicated they would give Morgan free rein in that arena, presuming he also made quick work of the Indian round-up and internment in Tuolumne and southward into Yokuts territory.

Morgan reached the tent and nodded smartly to young Major Mills, who had been waiting at attention for the Colonel to arrive.

"Major."

"Good afternoon, Colonel, Sir!"

"At ease, Major. Anything to report?"

"Thank you, sir. Patrols have sent back word of Indian sign in the hills all around us but no sightings, sir."

"I encountered that unpleasant bandit of Peale's up in the hills south of Sonora, along Sullivan's Creek. He has outlived his usefulness. Get word to the patrol captains that Marco needs to be quietly and quickly located and eliminated, top priority. He is wounded and should be easy to contain. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"As soon as you've sent that communique, get over to the gate and inform U.S. Marshal John Smith that I'd like to have a word with him."


	46. Chapter 45 - Winter Harvest

**_Barkley Ranch, afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

"Now, you got to remember, Hannah, you're not up in those snowy mountains anymore. This is The Valley, and one thing The Valley does better than anywhere in the west is grow food, pretty much all year round."

"All year round…?" Hannah looked thoughtfully into Silas' kind, enthusiastic eyes, and then had to laugh at this unexpected wealth. Of course, it made perfect sense, now that she thought about it, but she'd been 23 years up there in Strawberry. Every November behind that little cabin she'd shovel out the last few tubers, and put her garden to sleep for the winter. She looked now at the packets of seeds laid out on the kitchen cutting board. Looking forward to planting her garden in the spring, she had asked Silas' advice as to what grew best in the area, and where she should purchase seed. Grinning broadly, Silas had hurried off to bring her a dizzying variety of choices.

"It's not so balmy here that you can go plant these outside right now, of course, and not everything will grow for you in winter – like corn, cucumbers, lettuce, snap beans – but these I brought you, if you have them in the ground in September, they'll do just fine when it gets colder and the days are shorter."

"I wonder, if I get them sprouting in some dirt indoors, I could probably plant them outside once they're big enough -?"

Silas looked at her with surprise and interest. "Why, that's an interesting idea. I surely do think that would work, Hannah."

She began to gather the packets up, thinking ahead to what she could use as a planter, and where she might put them to have both shelter and sun. "Good thing Jarrod did such a thorough job already breaking up the sod for the garden," she chuckled, remembering working beside the lawyer as he sweated and enthusiastically wielded his shovel in the plot behind her cabin. "He's good, good man," she mused fondly. "I wonder how he's doing – and if he's remembered how we met before. I wonder –" She stopped, frowning slightly.

"Hannah? What is it?"

"I don't know. I just wish I knew what was going on up there. Heath was just about drownin' under memories of that time when he rode out, and Jarrod was looking spooky - and avoiding me - right before they all left for Sonora. We all musta been thinkin' about it, having dreams about it, because of those two young'uns going lost up on Tuolumne.

"I think Jarrod remembered, before he left, and he's feeling torn up about it. And if Jarrod _has_ remembered, Heath's going to find out quick, one way or another." Her eyes met his, concerned. "Silas, I'm not just worried about Heath finding out that his father was right _there_ , standing over him, and then left him behind – though that's plenty to find out, I know. There's a lot else Heath doesn't yet remember about that time, about coming home, things maybe I should have talked to him about before he left. I'm worried that it's all going to come at him at once, at just the wrong time, and I don't know how he's going to hold up under it."

* * *

 ** _Outside Sonora, California, Afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

 _Every soul must pay back what it owes, either by using well what it received, or by losing what it was unwilling to use well._

 _Augustine of Hippo, On Free Choice of the Will_

Victoria walked to stand beside her eldest son, and slipped her arm through his. He smiled down at her, then turned his contemplative gaze back to the fenced in camp and the gentle hills that surrounded it. They watched the activity in camp for a few moments in silence; three funeral pyres of clothing and other possessions had sent up their smoke since mid-morning; three bodies had been carried for burial to the northwest corner of the camp. One of the dead had been a small child. There was a tiny fire for the little one; they could spot Haja and Rivka comforting several grieving adults, while Heath seemed to be huddled in close conversation with a somber group of about twelve children.

Around the outside of the fence, the marshals were spread thin, but appeared vigilant and orderly in their patrol of the perimeter. At the gate, Smith knelt with Sawyer and two other men behind the dugout Sawyer had constructed, conferring over something drawn in the dirt. A large command tent had been staked a distance in front of the camp entrance, and as Victoria and Jarrod looked on, Colonel Morgan arrived and eventually dismounted.

Suppressing the rage that threatened to reassert itself at the sight, Victoria said, "The buckboard is just about loaded up with the fresh supplies that arrived from Sonora. I plan to use my safe-conduct permission from the Colonel immediately, before he changes his mind, as I'm certain he will. I think either you or Nick should stay with our camp while I'm gone."

Jarrod nodded. "Yes, Nick just arrived back a few minutes ago. Marco is safely locked up in Sonora, though that information is being kept quiet for now. Audra is filling Nick in on what else we know. He's just about boiling over back there, so I think he's the one to stay and keep watch here. But –" His eyes had remained on the camp, sweeping back and forth, from the army tents on the far rise above the lower stretch of Sullivan Creek, to their own hilltop, and back down to the camp. The fenced in internment area was a small fraction of the whole farmstead acreage, which was faintly marked here and there along the perimeter with piles of loose stone. "I wonder…" He suddenly smiled. "It could work. It could."

"What, Jarrod? What could work? Please tell me you have some good news. We really could use some."

He turned to his mother, placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. "I'm not sure yet. I'm going to ride to Sonora right now – I need some information. Though I don't like the idea of you going down to the gate by yourself."

"If you have something that will help this situation, Jarrod, go – and quickly. I'll be fine. I have a whole squadron of U.S. Marshals down there to look out for me."

* * *

 ** _Internment Camp, Afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

 _Hell is empty,  
And all the devils are here._

 _William Shakespeare, "The Tempest"_

"For God's sake, Mills, what is this disorganized mess you're handing me?" Morgan tossed the pile of company accounts and supply requisitions back at his major in disgust. He'd wanted to get these routine tasks taken care of before he sat down to meet with Smith, but it looked like that wasn't going to happen. Mills, to put it plainly, had all the appearances of a competent officer, but few of the necessary practical skills. Those appearances, and a powerful father's protection, had kept Mills moving up the army ladder nonetheless. Morgan figured they also had allowed the young man to graduate from a good school and his officers' training without learning much of anything. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Never mind. Give them to the B-company quartermaster sergeant, he'll straighten them out."

Morgan turned back to the pile of communiques that had been delivered to him at the tent. He lifted the first one, then looked up in surprise at the sound of a wagon approaching at a brisk pace.

"Mrs. Barkley. Why am I not surprised?" he remarked to no one in particular. The petite woman had come alone, and she drove her team quite confidently – even aggressively, Morgan admitted. She did not turn aside to the command tent or even glance in his direction, but proceeded directly to the stockade gate. Mills looked questioningly at his commander, but Morgan waved away his concern.

"Let her visit with her doomed husband, Mills. It will make no difference. She considers herself on a mission of charitable relief, and assures me she does not see us as enemies. Those claims may or may not be true; regardless, it makes no difference. By morning this will all be over."

* * *

 _Cowards die many times before their deaths;  
The valiant never taste of death but once._

 _William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"_

Victoria jumped down from the driver's seat and into John's embrace. Partially concealed as they were from their adversaries' eye behind the buckboard, she allowed herself a few minutes to fall apart in his arms and let him hold her together. He held her against his chest and gently rubbed her back, and wrapped her in calm words of safety and love, and pride in her bravery.

Then she told him about Audra. She recounted those events _very_ quickly - rushing to the happy ending, in fact - because she could see a tornado of wrath boiling up in his eyes in response. Only her assurance that Marco was already in Montana's lockup served to calm that storm. She told him how she had deflected Morgan, temporarily at least. And she told him about what Heath had overheard about Tom Barkley, when Nick and Jarrod had brought in their supplies. She began to weep again at this point, as she really had had no chance yet to even think about this revelation.

The pain and disillusionment was raw in her voice as she shared with John what her sons had told her, and it was clear to him that she believed it to be true: Tom had recognized, or at least strongly suspected, that Heath was his ten-year-old son, and he had left him behind. John was breathless at the thought of what pain Heath must have felt upon hearing this; meeting Victoria's anguished eyes, he could see she shared his sense of horror.

John realized, however, there was more to his own reaction than just the knowledge that Heath could have been killed; or that he had grown up in poverty; or that there were many hardships and social barriers from which Tom Barkley could have protected him, had he so wished.

More than anyone in the family – except perhaps Heath himself – John knew in detail what would have been Heath's and Husu's fate had the scalp hunters caught them in Sutamasina. A quick death would have been the best and most merciful outcome, though not the most likely. Their scalps would have been worth $5 each, and it was not uncommon for these to be taken while the victim was still alive. Death by exsanguination followed quickly, so the hunters often didn't waste ammunition on shooting those they scalped.

Children, however, were very often stolen rather than killed. In the rush of a hunt like that one, a child as young as Husu might have just been scalped and left to die, but an older boy like Heath, even blind, was worth considerably more than $5, sold off as a slave to a ranch or a mining camp. With no legitimate family to claim him, Heath would have been locked down and brokered for sexual services, or manual labor, or - more likely - both.

Back in '59, Jarrod and Nick probably didn't really understand what would happen to that little boy. John was certain, though, even at the age of ten, **_Heath_** knew. This was the world he had grown up in. John couldn't imagine the terror the boy felt when he realized he was facing it alone.

And then there was Tom. He'd been wheeling and dealing up in the Mother Lode country since before the big strike of '49. He knew well what went on. **_He_** would've known.

John looked with sadness at Victoria. "Oh, V, I'm so sorry. So sorry." It truly was grievous – if this was true, it was as if Tom Barkley was dying all over again for this family. He held her close and tried to show her he understood the feeling of loss. Then his thoughts went to Heath, and what he had heard of Jarrod's description. Both brothers agreed that Heath looked devastated, distant, and almost desperate to get as far away from them as possible. John had already noticed, a few hours ago, that Heath had moved off with his children's brigade to work in the southwest quadrant, and had made no move to come to the gate and check in.

The vicious words of Sheriff Peale's letter came echoing back to him once again. _Your Deputy…might find the conditions in the camp a little too familiar._

 _Familiar, yes._ _Thank goodness Rivka is with him,_ John mused sadly. _There is a certain kind of peace that comes when the battlefield on the outside matches up with the war on the inside. I imagine it feels to him like a place of belonging, perhaps even a refuge; at least here he can do something to help. Refuge and belonging…once this situation is over, I hope I'll be in a position to help the family heal from this._

"Shhh, V, don't you worry. Heath might be holding himself at a distance, and I'm sure he's hurting, though I'm willing to bet he's just as worried about the pain this is causing you, and he hates being the reason for it. Let's give it a little time." He thought he felt her relax, just a little. He saw a rider approaching and he straightened up. "This is probably my summons to meet with the Colonel. Bring the supplies in the gate, and Frank'll get some of the Miwok men in there to unload. They're getting it down to a routine, and I hear Rivka has quite the hospital setup in there now. The Board of Health and Dr. Logan would be proud."

Victoria studied his face for a long moment, then kissed him. "Take care, John, and watch your temper. Remember this faceoff is only one of several "prongs of attack", if I'm quoting you correctly."

"Understood, ma'am." He helped her up into the driver's seat and waved to Frank, who opened the stockade gate with a grin and the flourish of a royal doorman. He heard Victoria laugh at something Frank said to her as she passed. John shook his head with a smile as he turned back to look out at the command tent. The smile faded. He took a deep breath and blew it out, then he nodded to himself, and walked out to meet the Colonel's messenger.


	47. Chapter 46 - Bloodletting

_Remember,  
_ _The hand of fate is over us, and Heav'n  
_ _Exacts severity from all our thoughts.  
_ _It is not now a time to talk of aught  
_ _But chains or conquest, liberty or death._

 _Joseph Addison, "Cato"_

* * *

 ** _Internment Camp, Afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

"Marshal Smith. About time we had a conversation. Have a seat." Colonel Morgan looked up at John from behind his field desk and gestured gracefully toward one of the several camp chairs across from him.

John stepped into the shade of the command tent and pushed his weathered Stetson to the back of his head. "Colonel," he nodded a taciturn greeting to the officer. Stopping in front of the desk, he stood at ease, thumbs in his belt, and took his time looking over the other men in the tent.

Five officers of varying rank had circled around him as he entered. They seemed all cut from the same cloth that Morgan favored: handsome, fit, and with a sharp, martial appearance. Smith recognized Mills, glaring at him from his spot by Morgan's right shoulder. Per the terms of this parlay, none of the men in the tent were armed, nor were the army officers' movements overtly threatening, but the message was clear. _Outgunned and surrounded._

Smith turned back to Morgan. "Think I'll just stand, Colonel. My marshals have the situation in hand here. Your troops can stand down. You can start by pulling back the sniper units you've deployed. They have already opened fire, unprovoked, on a field hospital containing children and other ailing civilians."

"All are at risk when the Diggers hide raiders and insurgent murderers in their midst. All who stand in my way are at risk, Marshal - including those charitable citizens so dedicated to the futile task of helping these degenerate people. The citizens of this county demand an end to this scourge."

"The only insurgent murderer in this county, Colonel, is a whiskey-soaked lowlife named Marco, who is in no way an Indian. I see you know the man," John added, when he saw Morgan's look of surprised recognition.

The colonel stood now, all pretense of courtesy gone. Flushed, he opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and paced behind his desk until he regained control of his demeanor. Mills watched him with a concern that bordered on outright alarm. John remained impassive, following Morgan with steady gray eyes.

The colonel halted in his pacing and turned to face Marshal Smith, has hands gripping the back of his chair. "Marco be damned, Smith. He doesn't matter. What matters is what the **_public_** – the White, voting, civilized public – believes and wants. What the Governor and Congressman Mills believe and want. My patrols have been picking up signs of that Black Oak Miwok raider all over these hills, getting closer and closer to that camp, and the Governor is now convinced. If I do not receive an unconditional surrender from these Diggers – and the marshals protecting them - within the next 24 hours, the Governor has given me the go-ahead to attack at will. I will then obliterate that camp and anyone – lawman or otherwise - who stands in my way."

There was a heavy silence as the two men studied each other. Morgan suddenly relaxed his posture and smiled sadly. "John," he said gently, "don't you want a nice retirement? You've had a remarkable, solid career. Don't you want to step back and spend some time with your new wife? Enjoy your time together? Even I can see how this situation is breaking Victoria's heart. Walk away. Please, Marshal, for her sake, if not for yours. _Walk away_."

John said nothing. He narrowed his eyes at Morgan, jaw tight.

"Oh, for God's sake, Smith, back off!" Morgan cried with an air of exasperation. "At least give these cherished companions of yours **_some_** chance to survive this! Think of those men on the fence who have loyally followed you into this mess." His words of concern and conciliation were belied by the combative glee that danced in his eyes. "Think of your deputy who has interred himself within this camp, that – shall we say – that _troubled_ young man you've taken under your wing. Let's bring him out and see what he has to say. Hasn't he seen enough hardship in his short life? At the very least give him the choice to get himself and the lady doctor out of harm's way before I give the order to attack."

Feeling more confident now, Morgan stepped out from behind his desk and began to circle the marshal. Then he came around front and faced the taller man, though he was careful to stand far enough back so he didn't feel he was actually looking _up_ at him. "Unconditional surrender. Marshal Smith," he continued, in more formal tones, "I am willing to grant you and these Diggers the remaining daylight hours to bury their dead; I will allow Mrs. Barkley to bring down any needed supplies, subject to search of course; and I offer you this time to consider your choices. You **_and_** Heath Barkley, however, will be here at sunset to give me your answer, or we attack immediately, no more talk. Do you understand me, Marshal?"

John took a long, slow breath in, and settled his hat down again over his eyes. He studied Morgan, and then looked each man there in the eye, one at a time, as if memorizing their faces and the weaknesses of their souls. Several fidgeted in discomfort until he turned back to Morgan. John spoke in an almost congenial tone, though there was nothing neighborly in his steely expression. "So, to be clear, Colonel: You are telling me that despite solid evidence that these local crimes were **_not_** committed by Miwok raiders; and despite a Board of Health physician's detailed report on the demographic composition and dire illnesses of the Indians interned in this camp -" Here John paused and consulted some figures recorded in his pocket notebook. "—eighty-three percent of whom are either women, children under the age of 12, or elders over the age of 55; and, despite the on-site assessment of the law enforcement agency responsible for policing said Miwok Indians, stating that **_no_** such insurgents or raiders are concealed in the camp – (all of which information, by the way, Colonel, we have documented and transmitted to several in-state Federal agencies as well as to my superiors in Washington) – where was I? – Oh, yes. **_Your_** intention - despite all of that I just referenced – is to massacre this group of non-combatant Indians, along with a cadre of United States Deputy Marshals and a lady physician. Am I understanding you correctly?"

Major Mills flinched in surprise as Morgan swore like a back-alley thug and lunged forward, his face now inches from the marshal's. John met the colonel's furious stare calmly, grateful once more to the memory of Master Sergeant Penn MacGregor, the human crucible who helped teach a young John Smith how to keep his head under conditions of unpredictable conflict and violence. His gray, measuring gaze did not waver, and the colonel became even more enraged.

"If you don't stand down and stand aside, Smith, you and your bastard deputy will be the first to fall," Morgan hissed. "I might have been willing to make it a quick, a clean death on the battlefield, if only to make it easier on your wife and that lovely, _lovely_ stepdaughter of yours. But I'm under some pressure to make a political example of you, Marshal, and I don't mind doing it that way at all. But I wonder, how long will it take - what with you and that ex-con bastard of Tom's locked up and under prosecution – how long, do you think, until you and those Barkleys will be wishing you'd just gotten the _hell_ out of my way?"

* * *

Heath felt a small shock, seeing her there by the stockade gate. He was returning from a shelter near the ruined farmhouse that had been set up as a place to wash. He had heard through the fast-moving grapevine of the camp that more food had arrived, and the children were eager to wash up and have a meal. He smiled as they stampeded away from him, their wet hair shining like obsidian, their laughter like music.

He had washed himself up as well, along with his shirt, which he put back on, shivering in the afternoon chill. He hissed in pain as the fabric dragged over the raw stripe the sniper's bullet had drawn across his shoulder blade. He looked anxiously toward the gate, acutely aware he hadn't gone to check in with John after he'd gotten some sleep. There was so much Heath just didn't want to look at or think about right now, or ever – so much he didn't want to feel, and John was **_not_** the person who'd let him get away with that for long. He sighed and rubbed his temples.

 _Look at what John's facing out there, dammit. Just get over there, Heath, and see what you can do to help._

That steadied him a bit, and he started walking resolutely toward the gate and a buckboard that had just been unloaded of fresh supplies. Then he saw her, and he had to stop. She was standing, alone, at the head of the team, looking out toward what looked to Heath like a command tent. _John must be out there_ , he thought. Her hat hung at her back, and her silver hair was loose over her shoulders. Heath thought his heart might break, looking at her, imagining what fear she was feeling, what threatened loss loomed over her; and he grieved that he was adding to her sadness. He knew, though, he couldn't let her wait alone. He pushed past the weight in his chest, took a breath, and went to stand by her.

"Mother -?"

She turned with a gasp, and practically leaped into his arms. "Oh, Heath – Heath, I've been so worried about you –" She hugged him ferociously.

"Worried about me -? Mother, no, don't worry about me –"

She laughed and pulled back to look at him. "You're soaking wet!"

"Well at least I'm clean. You wouldn't have liked hugging me a few minutes ago." He studied her face. "Tell me how you're doing. Where's John? Is he meeting with -?"

"Yes – the 'first salvo', as Frank says, testing out the enemy positions." She met his worried eyes, and reached up to touch his face, as she often did; but now Heath couldn't help but see in her a new depth of pain in that gesture. He looked down and backed up slightly.

"Mother, I'm so sorry," he said, almost inaudible. He tried again, this time speaking with a bit more strength. "I know there's a lot you want to talk about. About my – my father –" He cleared his throat. "But that's in the past, and it's just not important compared to what John, and you, and Rivka are facing here, trying to protect these people. I just want to – to put it by for now, if it's alright with you." He raised his eyes, hoping she'd let it go. "Things are running more smoothly here in the camp and in Rivka's hospital area – I should check in with John to see what he needs me to do -"

Victoria was not at all comfortable with the unsettled emotions she was seeing in Heath, though her heart was hugely relieved to be able to hug him and see he was still in one piece. She realized that there were terrible, terrible questions and a wave of mourning rising up within her, for this loss of a cherished part of Tom's memory. As much as she might want to hide that fresh grief from Heath, it was not possible to hide it; and as much as she might wish that Heath himself would not draw fresh blood from that wound, just by **_being_** , that too was not possible. Heath had understood immediately what she was just beginning to accept: he would wound her; they both would see this; he would suffer for it; and so it would go.

 _Would it just take time_ , she wondered, _for this helpless bloodletting to pass away and become just a memory, a scar, without such pain? How **much** time? _Victoria thought she understood, now, what Jarrod and Nick had tried to describe: it was as if Heath were cut adrift, grieving but desperate to get away, and so eerily at home in this grim razor-wrapped arena.


	48. Chapter 47 - Deadline

**_Internment Camp, Afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

"Heath, don't leave. Please." Victoria reached out a hand toward him. He had only backed up slightly, he wasn't walking away from her, but her gut told her otherwise. She could not tolerate the distant, defeated look she was seeing in his face. No – she **_would_** not tolerate it.

"I – I'm not –" He was trying to hide his distress, she could see. He was looking everywhere but at her, seeking some refuge for his attention that would not involve meeting her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere –" There was movement out by the tent and he seemed relieved. "Look, John's on his way back."

She followed his gaze and was very glad to see John walking thoughtfully back toward the gate. She swung back to Heath, then, refusing to be deflected. "Yes, you _are_ going somewhere. Don't lie to me, Heath. Not about this. Not to me." She came close and looked up into his face. "And I will not lie to you. Are you listening?"

He nodded faintly. He was as tense as a clenched fist, as guarded as a granite boulder under the hand she laid gently on his chest.

"What Jarrod believes – that my husband knew or suspected who you were when he saw you in that village – I think, from what he described to me, that it is very likely the truth. And I will not lie to you – this knowledge is breaking my heart. It feels in some ways like a greater betrayal than knowing he gave his love to another woman. I **_chose_** this man to be father to my children, Heath, and it terrifies me to think that he was capable of closing his eyes to the reality of a son, regardless of the possible consequences for himself. That is not the man I thought he was –" Her voice cracked slightly with emotion, and she paused, suddenly glad that Heath was not looking at her, because she thought the sight of Tom's eyes right then might undo her completely.

"But all of that, truly, it makes no difference, because the fact remains: he lay with another woman, he knew well what could come of it, and he did nothing. I am a grown woman. My marriage to Tom was **_my_** responsibility, not yours. Nor is it your business to protect me from the pain of his failures. Does it hurt to look at you and think of him? Yes, of course it does. But I realized something, earlier today. It hurts just as much to look at Jarrod, or Nick, or Audra. It's not **_you_**. Do you understand me? Are you listening?"

His head came up slightly; he **_was_** listening, his eyes tracking after the thoughts in his mind. Her voice had suddenly become more strident, more insistent, and she gripped the front of his shirt, leaning in to look in his face. "Heath, I **_love_** you. You are my son now. Don't you **_dare_** think that tearing yourself out of the heart of this family will do anything but cause more pain. Do you **_hear_** me?" She tugged on his shirt, demanding an answer.

He couldn't help but grin faintly at this echo of his Mama. "Yes, ma'am," he answered, softly, looking down at her small fist gripping his shirt front. "I ain't deaf."

"You aren't –" She stopped when she saw the slight smile on his face, and then she hugged him again, heedless of the cold and damp of his shirt that seeped into the suede of her shearling winter coat. She felt his hands gently rub her back, trying to keep at least some of his wet shirt off of her clothing. She squeezed him tighter, and she felt him relax, finally. His arms came around her and held her close, and he laid his cheek against her hair; as some of the tension left him, she could feel him start to shiver in the cold.

Victoria pulled away to look up at him, then led him over to the buckboard. "Heath, you should know better. You'd be warmer in no shirt at all than wearing this wet thing. Take that off and throw this blanket over your shoulders until it's dry." She then turned away to give him privacy as he silently complied with her orders. John had arrived at the gate, and was updating Frank on what had transpired with Morgan. His expression was grave as he walked toward her, and she prepared herself for bad news.

* * *

 ** _Marshal's Office, Sonora, California, Afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

Jarrod burst in from the sidewalk, making an uncharacteristically noisy entrance into Montana's sparsely furnished, utilitarian office. The marshal, Jed, Sean and Husu all looked up in surprise as Jarrod dumped an armful of papers onto the worktable around which the men were sitting.

"Raul, I am _very_ glad to find you here."

Montana, frowning, grunted in reply and squinted up at Jarrod to see whether he was being sarcastic. Jed and Husu observed the pile of papers and the lawyer with curiosity. Sean, following Montana's lead, scowled at the tabletop.

"I have good news, and I'm going to need your assistance to put this plan into action. But why so somber, gentlemen? I can't imagine Marco is being difficult, is he?"

"Nope," Montana confirmed. "He's singin' like a sparrow. Can't hardly shut 'im up; court reporter in fact had to go get more paper. 'Course Marco's not a man you'd wanna base an entire case on, bein' as he's spent most of his adult life pickled in whiskey. Givin' us some excellent road signs, though, yes his is. We been sending wires down to Roberts – you met him in Nevada –" he added, when he saw Jarrod smile in recognition, "- an' he's birddogging the really good information from Jamestown over to Stockton. Sean's brother, Roman, is down there with 'im. I'm optimistic," he concluded with a grim, thoughtful smile, "that Jim is close to sniffin' out the proper domino, and then he'll give it a shove. It is his special talent. Glad Ramos could spare him, since he couldn't come himself. Someone's gotta stay behind to keep law an' order east of the Sierra divide, I reckon."

Jarrod had straddled an empty chair and sat down, leaning in to listen. "I'm glad to hear that, Raul, but it doesn't tell me what it is you're not happy about."

"Teleli," Husu said. "Three times we picked up a trail and lost it. The last time – well, we couldn't pick it up again anywhere, but he seemed to be heading down country. Southwest of here. I wasn't much help – we were outside any grounds I've ever traveled. None of our people have been able to move through the foothills freely since I was a child - we were either up in the mountains or boxed in on the flats in a reservation."

Jarrod studied the Miwok boy who continued to impress him with his courage and thoughtful manner. The marshal had dressed Husu in trail clothes – shirt, coat, pants, boots – and his ebony hair was tied in a leather thong that hung down his back. He still looked exotic, but Jarrod supposed from a distance he'd blend in with the other men, which was Montana's intent. He didn't want Husu attracting any hostile attention, what with the fear and hatred that was being whipped up among the settlers in the area.

"Two years I been tracking that man," Montana admitted, "so it's no surprise to me he ghosted. It's just –" His eyes narrowed, and Jarrod noticed Jed give him a sympathetic glance. It was a look that spoke volumes about Montana's feelings, as well as the close relationship between the two men. "I've got a deadline now," the marshal said finally. "Morgan's down there with his troops like a pack a' wolves ready to close in, and I've had word that the Governor's agreed to 24 hours. Unconditional surrender or they will attack."

Jarrod let that chilling information sink in. He looked at it, considered it from all sides, accepted it as reality, and began cataloguing points of weakness and counterattack. He nodded as the necessary steps for his plan became clear; this plan could still work, if only to buy time, though it might possibly even contain within it the seeds of an acceptable solution. That would come later. Right now, he was pretty sure he needed Montana's deputy marshal, the one-man pony express and wire service. Jed had been watching him with a slight smile, and seemed fully to be expecting Jarrod's next request.

"I'm going to need your help, Jed, because it looks like I have to get this done before sunset."


	49. Chapter 48 - Sunset

_Come what come may;  
_ _Time and the hour runs through the roughest day._

 _William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"_

* * *

 ** _Internment Camp, Afternoon, December 2, 1874_**

John watched it play out as he walked back through the stockade gate: Heath backing up, looking for an out and tense as a fenced-in mustang; Victoria reaching out and calling him back. Everything in her stance and expression told John she was speaking from her heart, and he near sighed in relief when he saw Heath give in to her embrace. It was a start, a necessary start – but now John needed to talk to them both about the deadline they all faced.

 _Sunset, Morgan had said. Sunset, and he wants Heath there_. _Why? Is Heath just a way for him to threaten me – or the Barkley family? Does he see Heath as their point of weakness? Or is there some other reason? Heath and I have barely talked about Morgan since this whole thing started. What am I missing -?_

John met briefly with Frank at the gate, each updating the other on their developing situation. He scanned the hills around the camp as they spoke, thinking through the several strategies they had in play. Some John had set in motion before he had taken up his post at the gate; some – like the arrest and interrogation of Marco - had evolved over the past twelve hours.

They'd received periodic updates from Jed, Montana's laconic Deputy Marshal. Jed appeared to John to be in constant, swift, effortless motion – except when he wasn't. At rest, he was as relaxed and still as a mountain lion with a full belly, sleeping in the noonday sun. Frank had accused the boy of being a ghost; John suspected the accusation was not entirely in jest, after Jed had one too many times scared the daylights out of the veteran lawman by appearing by his side with no warning. Moreover, the patrolling deputy marshals and the surrounding army patrols and checkpoints apparently presented no impediment to Jed's movements: he seemed to be able to appear and disappear at will.

Frank had been told to expect something from Jarrod by sunset that might buy them some time. _I dearly hope so,_ John thought anxiously. _We're damned short on time. I need **something** to put in Morgan's way, something to slow him down, anything that'll give us a little room to maneuver – _

He walked back to the buckboard. He returned Victoria's warm embrace deeply and silently, and admitted to himself that Morgan's taunting as regards his beautiful wife had rattled him more than a little. John then turned to Heath, who was watching him with stoic concern, a rough blanket draped over his shoulders.

"Where's your shirt, son?" John asked. He put an arm around Heath in greeting, but then stepped back to look at him more carefully when the boy flinched in pain at the contact. "What is it? Let me see," he ordered.

"Grazed. It's not much. Rivka cleaned it up but it's still pretty raw. Right now I'm just following Mother's orders and waiting for my shirt to dry." He gave Victoria a quick smile, then winced as John lifted the blanket to look at the red groove across his shoulder.

John growled under his breath. "Goddamned snipers." Anger tightened like a fist in his chest, and fear, as he pictured what Frank had so sparsely described. _Good thing he ain't a quitter._ His eyes met Heath's as his warm hand settled alongside the younger man's neck. The gentle squeeze of his fingers was a question, and Heath gave him a reassuring nod. After a beat, John nodded back, took a calming breath, and turned his attention back to the task ahead of them.

"We have until sunset to give our answer. Morgan's terms right now: unconditional surrender within 24 hours, or he will open a full-scale assault. He has further threatened to attack prior to the 24-hour mark if sufficiently provoked."

"Provoked?" Victoria asked.

"Evidence of insurgents within the camp – evidence that we now know he is willing to invent as needed. And-or –-"

"And-or what?"

John had to overcome a sudden reluctance to continue. "He states that he will attack immediately at sunset unless I bring Heath with me to discuss terms."

"What -?" Victoria looked confused. "Bring Heath? Why?"

"I don't know. I was hoping Heath could help me figure out what he's up to." They both turned to look at him.

Heath was staring out at the command tent, his eyes full of questions and no small measure of desperation. " ** _Why_**?" he responded, an edge of anger now in his voice. "You're asking **_me_**? For twelve years I've been wondering why. What the **_hell_** does he want with me now?" Heath found himself surprised at the rage and frustration that came boiling up at John's words; all at once, there it was, steaming under his skin and fogging his thoughts. He abruptly turned away from them and stalked back to the buckboard, yanking the blanket off his scarred shoulders. Heedless now of the chill, he pulled on his damp shirt, and tried to focus on buttoning it with shaking fingers.

A warm hand covered his, and he looked up to see Rivka.

"I overheard. Also Malila informed me that Me'weh was all wet and needed a dry shirt." She held up a fresh garment with a small smile. She let him change, and then did up the buttons for him, her expression intense. " _Morgan_ ," she murmured angrily. "Did I hear John say Morgan is asking for you? What does he **_want_** , that vile, heartless bureaucrat?"

John had been thinking back to Peale's letter as he heard Rivka's words.

 _"It occurred to me that he and your deputy might also know of each other. Morgan was Canby's Judge Advocate officer when they liberated Carterson, though I suppose he could be forgiven for not remembering an undistinguished NCO."_

A JAG officer. At Carterson. John spun back to Heath. _Of course._ "It was **_Morgan_**? Your discharge in '65? **_He_** did that?"

Heath and Rivka both nodded. Rivka's brows were drawn down in an expression of burning outrage. She glowered at the command tent in the distance, then turned back to John and Victoria. "As if that "dishonorable" discharge wasn't loathsome enough, what made it even **_worse_** was the fact that Morgan was the one who recruited Heath in the first place, knowing full well how old he was." She looked as if she could spit fire and eat army colonels for breakfast. John and Victoria took this in, both briefly speechless at this previously unknown history.

John could certainly understand the anger. He absolutely shared Rivka's sentiments, but her words were also bringing up for him a cascade of questions. "Heath – are you telling me Colonel Morgan recruited you - at thirteen - to serve in one of Birge's spearhead units?" He honestly was having a hard time imagining any officer with the slightest understanding of combat doing such a thing to a child. He was having an even harder time believing that an intelligent, compassionate boy like Heath, who cared for his family, would willingly sign up for such an assignment.

"No," Heath replied. " ** _Captain_** Morgan recruited me to the Cavalry at age twelve along with a bunch of other mail riders. Entered just after my thirteenth birthday, 2nd Regiment California Volunteer Cavalry. Told me I'd be a stable hand and spend the war in California, sendin' my pay home to Mama."

John nodded. That scenario made sense – knowing Heath as he did, he could imagine it seemed an attractive option: travel away from the dead-ends and bigotry of Strawberry; a chance to provide for his family; the lure of being able to serve in the Union Army by doing something he loved to do. He imagined it wasn't a difficult pitch for Morgan to make. "So then what happened?"

"Basic training at Camp Alert, and then stable work, like he promised. About five weeks in, though, I got a transfer order, effective immediately, to report to Col. Birge and Cpt. Welker in St. Louis - signed by **_Major_** Harrison Morgan. Couple of big sergeants I'd never seen before hustled me off the base that very day and physically put me on an eastbound train. I got off the train in St. Louis and made my way to Benton Barracks. Didn't have anywhere else to go, and if nothing else I wasn't a deserter.

"Welker was a good man, a good captain; he looked out for me and taught me a lot. Pretty soon after I got there we were deployed and up to our eyeballs in the war. Chickamauga was a year and a half later. Those few of us that survived were sent back into the western theater. Then we had a year, maybe a little less, of skirmishing and recon across Texas and the southwest, until we were ambushed and locked up in Carterson. Eight months later, Canby arrived to turn us loose. Morgan arrived with him, and decided to swat me like a pesky fly. Why? I don't know. I've never understood it, and believe me, I tried to figure it out.

"I seriously considered some years back that maybe Morgan was actually my guardian angel in disguise, steering my course to make sure I found Rivka. Though why my angel found it necessary to kick me out in the middle of the desert without even a blanket to my name, I don't know. It's not like the Levis needed any more reason to feel sorry for me than they already had." He tried to laugh, but knew his reach for humor right then would fall short. He focused instead, gratefully, on Rivka's hand holding his. The anger had ebbed and eddied into a deep current of anxiety; Morgan loomed in his mind as a harbinger of unexpected cruelty and loss. The thought of being commanded into the man's presence made Heath's mouth go dry; it made his hands go numb; it set his every muscle humming to run away, as fast and as far as he could.

* * *

 ** _Stockton, California, December 2, 1874_**

Deputy Marshal Jim Roberts drank a leisurely whiskey, leaning against the dark aromatic wood of the bar in the San Joaquin Gentlemen's Club. He had dressed in more casual street clothes this evening, and though he still wore his sidearm, his badge was nowhere in evidence. Following a trail of possible and probable dominoes to this pleasantly masculine establishment, Jim had struck up a friendly and slightly flirtatious conversation with a very handsome, very engaging young waiter named Christopher. Roberts had tipped him generously in advance; when the time came, Christopher was receptive to the marshal's polite request for a more private conversation as soon as he ended his shift.

That left Roberts with a few hours to wait, but he had other errands to attend to in the meantime. He gave the waiter a smile and a pat on the shoulder as he rose to leave. Christopher smiled warmly and watched the marshal walk to the door with a slightly wistful expression. Roberts caught the young man's look as he stepped through the mahogany doors; as they swung closed behind him he laughed softly and shook his head. _My goodness,_ he thought to himself, _if I was that sort of man…well, Christopher, let's just say I can see why a man of that sort would take all kinds of chances to have your company. My goodness._

Still chuckling, his next stop was his hotel room, where he expected to be meeting up with the eager young Roman Thomas, a brand new Deputy Marshal who made up for his lack of experience with his dedication, energy, and heart. Last night, while Sheriff Peale was conducting business in Stockton that had nothing to do with law enforcement, Roman had high-tailed it back to Jamestown to conduct a search and seizure of evidence. Roman didn't know exactly what he'd find, but he did know where to look. As an added benefit, the hiding place Roman had observed Peale to use lay just within an abandoned mine entrance with no private ownership on record. Roberts was greatly looking forward to seeing what Roman brought back.

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, Sunset, December 2, 1874_**

Silas pulled up the buggy in front of Hannah's cabin and climbed out, looking around to see where Hannah might be. He had brought her some pots she could use for planting, as well as a trowel, a watering can, and some other hand tools that might be useful. He could have brought these to her in the morning – it would be dark soon, and Hannah certainly wasn't likely to start a gardening project right this very minute. No, Silas just felt a need to offer her some company as the evening came on.

He saw her up on the rise behind the cabin, her back to the grove of oaks that sheltered the headstones of Leah and Rachael. She was looking to the southwest, watching as the sun grew big and heavy and burning orange-red, watching as it sank toward the distant dark curve of the ocean. Silas climbed up the slope to stand beside her and she smiled at him. His heart ached for the worry he could see in her eyes. He took her hand and they watched the sunset together. She was humming a slow tune, and he picked it up with her, and they sang together until it was full dark.

 _Children, don't get weary,  
No, no, oh,  
Don't get weary,  
Till your work is done._

 _Keep your lamps trimmed and burnin'  
_ _Keep your lamps trimmed and burnin'  
_ _Keep your lamps trimmed and burnin'  
_ _The time is drawin' nigh_

 _Children, don't get weary…_


	50. Chapter 49 - Setting Charges

_Let it work,_

 _For 'tis the sport to have the enginer_

 _Hoist with his own petard; and 't shall go hard_

 _But I will delve one yard below their mines_

 _And blow them at the moon. O, 'tis most sweet_

 _When in one line two crafts directly meet._

 _William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"_

 _ **Stockton, California, Afternoon, December 2, 1874**_

Deputy Marshall Jim Roberts was an easygoing, even-tempered sort of fellow who moved through the world, for the most part, with a muted and humane sense of humor. He was personable, kind, and attentive to detail without being obsessive, all qualities which contributed to his remarkable efficacy as an investigator. His easy manner, however, overlay a fervent and tireless commitment to his duties as a lawman; he was competitive and contentious nowhere in his personal life, except when it came to the pursuit of justice and the catching of bad guys. Then, 'competitive' and 'contentious' could only begin to describe the ferocity with which he practiced his profession.

Still, even in the midst of success or failure, danger or celebration, Roberts was not a man given to loud or dramatic expressions of emotion. Even young Roman Thomas had figured this out in their short time working together. And so, when Roberts reacted as he did to the contents of the crate he'd brought from Jamestown, Roman knew that they had something very important.

Roberts was initially silent as he removed first a large leather-bound ledger and flipped through a few pages. He then lifted out several documents, studying them one at a time before he set them carefully aside. Many appeared to be notarized and bearing official seals. There were several photographs; notated maps; receipts and invoices. About halfway through, Roberts had to pause. Roman watched him raise a shaking hand to wipe his upper lip. Roberts seemed to be slightly short of breath as he stepped back from the table and began pacing around the room; he stopped at the far wall and turned back to stare with intensity at the crate as he raked a hand through his hair. Several times he opened his mouth to say something, but then went back to pacing and staring at the crate. Finally, Roman felt he had to speak.

"Marshal Roberts? What do you think? Can we use this?"

Roberts tore his eyes from the crate and looked at him, for a moment still a bit wild-eyed, which made Roman uncomfortable. Then Roberts let his breath out in a laugh. He came back to the table with an incredulous, wondering smile, shaking his head in amazement.

"What we have here on the table, Roman, is a domino, the biggest, heaviest, most dangerous domino I think I personally have ever seen. Our first order of business is to get it safely out of town and up to where it can do us some good. As soon as possible. Immediately, in fact."

"I can take it. Should I bring it to Marshal Smith?" Roman was blazing with his readiness carry out whatever duty was assigned to him.

That question settled Roberts down a bit. He was on fire himself, but the kid's eagerness reminded him to slow down, think, and make sure he wasn't sending his young assistant into harm's way.

"Need to get it to Smith, ASAP, but I don't like the idea of you riding out alone - you're green, for one thing, and both you and this box are very important. But I gotta wait in town to talk to that Christopher kid." He frowned, thinking.

"My Pa'll ride with me. He's waiting over to the Cattlemen's, getting somethin' to eat. He rode with me here from Jamestown 'cause he knew what I was carrying."

"Your Pa, huh? Ol' Sheriff Thomas, from back when I was a kid?"

"That's him," Roman said proudly.

"I heard he was lamed up."

"Too lame to be sheriff, but he rides good as me, and he shoots better 'n anyone I know."

"Well it sounds like he was _**thinkin'**_ way better 'n me, if he rode shotgun with you here. He willin' to shadow you up to Sonora?"

" _Willin'_? I'd like to see you try to get him to stay behind," Roman grinned.

 _ **Army Encampment, Outside Sonora, California, Late Afternoon, December 2, 1874**_

Sunset was approaching. The vast rolling southwest horizon lay in misty arcs of dark blue and green, arms wide and waiting to embrace and swallow the warmth of the setting sun and sink the valley into darkness. Sunlight still lay bright on the peaks of the mountains, and the snowfields blazed with almost painful clarity. _More snow up there every day,_ he thought, squinting at the brilliant whiteness. A breath of winter flowed over him, and he could picture it clearly. He could smell it, taste it, hear it – the crunch of the ice under his boots; the deep blue-black of the sky; the thin, cold air; the mountainous horizons encircling them from where they stood, on top of the world. _Top of the world, Jimmy!_ his uncle would laugh, throwing his hands in the air, and Jimmy would laugh too, speechless and enchanted, full of a purest joy like nothing he'd ever felt since.

He didn't often let himself think about Uncle Nathan, his mother's brother. Nathan was a man of the mountains, crazy in love with the wild terrain that surrounded him, and Jimmy's parents were ambitious, driven, citizens of progress. The couple moved with their sons to the booming city of San Francisco, and Uncle Nathan was utterly exiled from the memory and consciousness of the family. Jimmy wondered sometimes if he was real, or if his uncle was a fantastic childhood character he had invented - but when the sun glinted off the snowfields, he couldn't help but admit that the happiness they had shared was more real than anything else for him.

This evening, the memory left him even more horribly unsettled and uneasy than usual. Sunset was coming, and soon after there would be bloodshed. He was trapped. There was no joy for him in his life here, he had long ago accepted that as truth. What he had in its place was a role to fill, orders to follow, and an absolute, invulnerable leader to obey. Here, he was Major James Henry Mills. Each day, he gave himself to the numbness of his narrow path, and kept his senses averted from joy, and from the beauty of the wilderness. Today, however, the mountains were demanding he remember; they were screaming for his confession. Today a mask had slipped from his invulnerable leader, revealing the grimacing face of a weak, angry madman.

A soft voice spoke in his ear, and Mills jumped, thinking for a brief second he was losing his mind. He whirled to stare at a man who seemed to have materialized right behind him. He pulled out his pistol with a shaking hand and aimed it at the intruder.

Jed held up his hands with a reassuring smile. "Easy, there, Major, I'm no danger. Didn't mean to startle you."

Mills continued to stare, breathing hard; then, as his heart rate slowed, he relaxed and holstered his weapon. He rubbed at the headache growing over his eyes. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Well, the fella I work with could explain it better than me, but I'm the messenger, so here's the thing. There's been a change in the status of this territory here, that could cause you and your chain 'a command some _**big**_ problems if you go into this thing not knowing what's what. Wanna make sure y'all have the right information, and you seemed like the level-headed one to get it to. 'Cause your colonel, y'know, he seems a little – unstable, kinda. Figured you'd be in a better position to think it through and explain it to him so things don't go all sideways."

Jed held out a sheaf of documents and a rolled up map. Mills paused, studying the young man's open expression, then he reached out and took what he was offering.

 _ **Internment Camp, Sunset, December 2, 1874**_

"Time to go."

Rivka ran her hands over his shoulders and kissed his cheek; his voice, usually so deep and fluid, was rough and wound up tight as a rope. His hands were ice cold. She took his face in her hands and looked him in the eye. "Don't you start thinking like an inmate, Heath," she warned him as she had in the past. "He is a criminal. He is a thief and a murderer, and he has no power over you."

"You're right, darlin'. I just wish I knew what he was after." He gave her a smile and made a visible effort to relax. Reluctant to move away, he instead pulled her close and kissed her, one hand caressing the back of her neck and giving her chills. She loved the way he kissed her. He gave all of himself to it, as though there was nothing else but just the kiss; it was reverent, passionate, gentle, ravenous, all at the same time.

Finally he had to step back and she found she already ached with his absence. "I love you. Hurry back."

"I love you, darlin'." Dread filled him once again as he walked to meet John at the gate. _Don't start thinking like an inmate, Heath._ He took a deep breath and blew it out as he reached John's side. John was acutely aware of the tension coming from Heath: he was restless and jumpy, so much so he could barely stand still for the few moments it took to swing open the gate.

This bothered John. Over the past six months, he had been at Heath's side through some truly terrible, violent, dangerous moments. He personally had shackled Heath as a fugitive criminal and delivered him to prison; he had seen Heath give himself up to an armed, mercenary lynch mob in order to save another man's life. Each of those times, and on many other occasions, John had been impressed by Heath's _**stillness**_ in the midst of the storm, and his willingness to see things as they are; his ability to draw strength and understanding from many sources. That stillness seemed nowhere in evidence right now, and it worried John greatly.

A crisp, energetic captain appeared before them. "Sir," he said, including only John in that honorific, "I am instructed to escort you and Thomson here to the meeting. I am also instructed respectfully to inform your wife that she is invited to attend if she so desires." He made a slight bow in her direction.

Wary, surprised, Victoria and John hesitated, wondering what Colonel Morgan's agenda could be; still, it didn't take long for them to decide to go into this together.

Heath hung back slightly. 'Wary' did not even begin to describe his burgeoning sense of alarm about the whole scenario, and he had no idea how to assess Morgan's invitation to Victoria.

Following, he moved numbly toward the tent as though he no longer inhabited his own body. A feeling that he was directing his own movement from a foggy, empty place outside himself kept coming over him in waves, horribly strange and disturbingly familiar. The ground itself had become a shifting, lethal, unpredictable field of battle that might vanish from beneath him at any moment. As they stepped into the tent, Heath swallowed against the nausea, and realized he was shivering from head to toe. He hoped in passing that his shaking was not visible, at least not to the encircling officers, though Heath was sure a man like Morgan could smell the fear that was steaming off of him.

 _The officers_. Heath watched as a lieutenant brought two chairs to offer to John and Victoria on one side of the desk. He then positioned himself with the other officers behind and beside Heath, just out of his line of sight, effectively isolating him to stand in front of Morgan's desk alone. He could feel the heat of their joyful hostility on his skin as they hovered by him. It required a conscious effort to stop himself from flinching every time one of them moved or made a sound.

Morgan was ignoring Heath for the time being, offering pleasantries instead to Victoria. It gave Heath time to study the man. Morgan had aged well, and it was not difficult to see in him the captain he had been twelve years before.

 _"I think I overheard you are supporting a family back in Strawberry? Very responsible. I admire that in a young man."_

Heath swallowed again, his jaw clenched against any sound that might escape him as the ground and the tent around him moved sickeningly. Morgan leaned forward as if to rise from behind his desk and all at once he became someone else – somewhere else – Morgan became that slim, dark Confederate officer, stepping out from behind his desk to look him over.

 _Linceul_.

 _"You seem pretty damn skinny for a Yankee sewer rat who's been caught - for a third time now - stealing food from me and my staff. Why is that, boy? Are you stealing for someone else? I'd be happy to keep you fed, boy, if you could share a little information in return…If not, well, I'll just beat it out of you…That will be a pleasure for me. You, I'm afraid, will not benefit in that scenario."_

Heath did moan faintly then, unable to stop himself from retreating from the desk and closing his eyes in a vain attempt to ward off Linceul's invasion into his mind. He backed up into a tall, broad-shouldered captain, who growled in annoyance and promptly dropped Heath to the ground with a hard fist to his right flank.

The pain was enormous, the blow having caught him precisely where he'd been shot over the summer. He waited it out as it wrapped an angry giant fist around him and momentarily squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

 _Boy, it don't take much to put me down anymore,_ he thought in passing. _If I ever do get back home, I don't know that I'm gonna be rough breaking any stock, not any more. Only twenty-five, and I'm busted as old Brahma._

These distracting thoughts helped marginally – he could hear Victoria's and John's anger in his defense, the low laughter of the officers standing over him - but what he needed urgently was to get his feet steady on the ground and his head back into the proper time and place.

 _Get a grip on yourself, Heath, for God's sake,_ he thought desperately, but he seemed to be yelling at himself from a great distance away, and it really wasn't helping. He was, in fact, coming apart so fast he couldn't keep track of all the pieces and fragments falling to the ground around him, and the colonel hadn't so much as even _looked_ at him yet. He didn't know what Morgan wanted to accomplish here, but Heath was sure of one thing – they hadn't even gotten started.


	51. Chapter 50 - Bait and Switch

_Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,_

 _Is coming towards me, and my inward soul_

 _With nothing trembles:_

 _at some thing it grieves –_

 _William Shakespeare, "King Richard"_

* * *

 ** _Command Tent, Sunset, December 2, 1874_**

Approaching this meeting, Victoria was filled with foreboding, as it seemed certain her presence was intended to accentuate and amplify whatever attack the colonel was leveling at her husband. She worried also for Heath, who was shaky - **_very_** shaky - on the walk over. That had been obvious to both John and Victoria; their attempt, however, to brainstorm some alternative to delivering him to this parlay had been brusquely dismissed by Heath himself.

The basic setup quickly came clear to her: the officers culled Heath to the chopping block the moment they all entered the tent. Morgan's pleasantries fell unintelligible on her ears, as John rebuffed the colonel's offers of hospitality. Together they watched the wolfish officers hover around Heath in a tightening circle of menace. They saw him retreat, a hunted, hopeless look of confusion on his face, and then, with a terrible rapidity, they watched the young man they both loved as a son fall apart.

The soldier standing behind Heath was as tall as John himself, and easily outweighed him by thirty pounds. He smirked as he blind-sided Heath with a vicious punch and laughingly accepted the praise of his comrades when his target fell promptly to the ground, gasping for breath. Grinning openly at John and Victoria, he slammed Heath into the dirt with a boot on his neck.

John came at him like a gale force wind, wordlessly, silently, and with absolutely lethal intent.

The officer turned to meet the marshal's attack with a welcoming smile, pleased things were going so quickly according to his commander's plan. He was imagining Col. Morgan's praise and pleasure when, suddenly, the very ground he stood upon rose up and threw him off. Only the reflexes of two junior officers kept him from falling ignominiously to the ground. He struggled back up to his feet, furious and belligerent, but his moment had been lost. One of the lieutenants, a young man in charge of a sniper squad, stepped up to restrain the frothing captain, expressing unwelcome, if not exactly seditious, words of caution and reason.

* * *

 _Get up. Just - get - **up**. _

There was laughter somewhere up above him. There was dirt between his fingers, dirt in his eyes and dirt in his mouth, redolent of moss and decaying wood. There was the weight of a booted foot between his shoulders. The contact was casual, almost gentle - until he tried to rise. Then, the boot responded: promptly, forcefully and with intent. Disoriented still and unprepared, a muffled grunt escaped him as the ground rose up fast and knocked the wind out of him once more. Heath struggled, coughing, to turn his face out of the dirt so he could draw a breath, and grimaced as the boot heel of the big captain dug into the bones of his back.

John Smith surged in Heath's direction like a raging storm front. Heath felt, more than heard, the marshal's approach, deafened as he was by the echoing cacophony that was filling his mind. Still, even jumbled as his thinking had become, Heath knew one thing for a certainty: right then, he was being used as bait, no more, no less. They were stomping him like a bunch of bullies torturing their target's pet dog. They were stomping him just for fun – or to draw out an impulsive, risky response.

Heath suspected Morgan didn't do anything just for fun.

 _Get **up**. **Now**. Put a **stop** to this. _

Pain and vertigo and the terrifying fragmented mess of his own mind were crushing him just as surely as the boot on his neck, but he latched on to that one goal. One idea. **_Just get up_** _._

The painful pressure on his neck shifted as the soldier turned his attention to Smith's approach. Heath dug his fingers into the soft ground and pushed himself up as hard as he could manage. He felt the weight of the boot leave him as the captain, now off balance, staggered a few steps back. Moving blindly, Heath continued to rise, his only aim now to put himself in the path of John Smith and stop him from doing whatever it was Morgan was trying to get him to do.

What John wanted to do was rip that smirking captain apart, one limb at a time. He could feel the desire for it in his hands, could taste it in his mouth. He was pretty sure – _reasonably_ sure – that he'd be able to rein in his killing rage once he had wiped the evil smile off that overgrown hitman's face. Any other game plan beyond getting his foot off of Heath's neck, and getting Heath himself up off the ground, had, for the moment, fled entirely.

The big captain was expecting him, John quickly realized. Before he could consider the implications of that observation, however, the captain fell over backwards with a comical look of surprise. John found himself, instead, nearly tackled by Heath, who - it appeared - had staggered to his feet solely for that reason.

It was, in truth, more of a stumble than a tackle, but it served its purpose. Heath, still breathless, pushed John a few paces back, away from the cadre of officers, his hands fisted in the front of John's coat. His eyes were still unfocused; after a few steps, he stopped, staring down, and swayed as though he might collapse. John quickly caught him up, and Heath dropped his forehead to the marshal's shoulder, breathing hard and keeping a ferocious grip on his coat.

He just stood like that for a few beats, catching his breath, then he spoke hoarsely. "Don't, John. I'm just bait. You – _you're_ his target. Don't let him –"

"Told you before, son. I won't just stand by." He could feel Heath shivering under his hands. "Heath, what's going on? What is going on with you?"

Heath didn't respond immediately. He had his eyes tightly closed, holding on to John as though he were bracing himself against the sound and fury of some overwhelming inner assault. His answer, when it came, held for John the all defeated, terrified tones of a confession extracted under torture.

"I can't think. I can't **_think_** , John, I'm – I'm all broken up and mixed together - nothing's staying where it should. So much worse than it was – I don't know why. I don't know how to make it stop. I have to make it **_stop_** , John, I - I can't - I can't li- -"

He broke off abruptly, shaking his head. John bleakly, silently filled in the words nonetheless, and for the first time, he began to wonder if this boy was truly slipping away out of his reach.

 _I can't live like this._

What Heath said next, though, took John by surprise. There was _something_ in his refusal to speak those words of hopelessness; some hint of his strength, some reminder of his stubborn, persistent resilience. Heath straightened up, frowning in concentration, and took a slight step back from John, releasing his grip on his coat. His gaze shifted to focus on Morgan, who was rising to his feet behind his desk and staring back at him with a look of anticipation. Heath spoke as if to himself, in a fierce whisper that shimmered, faintly, with a familiar, self-willed, protective anger.

" _Twelve_."

"Twelve?" John said, not understanding at first.

"I was **_twelve_** ," Heath repeated, jaw clenched, eyes distant and remembering. "That's how old I was when I met Morgan. **_I was_** **_twelve – years – old_**."

Waves of competing emotion moved across his face: deep sadness; simmering rage; a rising determination; but now John also sensed urgency. Heath wanted to tell him something. Like a drowning man grabbing onto a disintegrating fragment of floating debris, Heath now seized onto this moment of clarity, driven by the fear that it was only a temporary reprieve. His breathing evened out and he turned his gaze gratefully to Victoria's face, and then to John, his eyes intense and focused. Morgan was rising, coming around in front of his desk with an indulgent, chilly smile. Glancing again at the commander, Heath swallowed and whispered urgently to John. " ** _Bait_** , John. I was a game to him then, and that's all I am now. It's **_you_** he **_has_** to take down. I'm a distraction. Entertainment for him and his boys. Bait to pull you off course. **_You_** have a job to do, John. Do it. Those families in the camp have no one else to defend them."

Morgan leaned back on the edge of his desk and regarded Heath, his arms crossed over his chest.

"So, Thomson, it's been a while."

Heath turned and regarded this adversary, struggling as always to understand what Morgan's reason and motivation had been to act as such a scourge in Heath's young life. He tried to remain calm, waiting there for the colonel to dredge up that history and bludgeon him with it.

"It's a small world, Thomson, no?"

Heath didn't answer.

"You don't seem to object to my using that name, boy. Why is that?"

 _I said, why is that, boy? Are you stealing for someone else?_

Heath winced slightly. His hands closed into fists as he commanded himself to settle down. He fought to remember Rivka's words when he climbed up out of the well. Reminded himself of the child he had been, back then. _Reckon I'll never stop having to look out for that kid. P_ _lenty of threats right here in front of me. No need to bring in the demons who are dead and gone._

"Why should I object? It's the name you knew me by. It's my mother's name, and my mother was a brave and honorable woman."

Morgan gave a short laugh. " _Brave_? Brave enough to think she could lie with a married man and not suffer the consequences. _Honorable_ enough to bear and raise up a child who would threaten that man's good name and fortune and reputation." He reveled in his sarcasm, then noticed Victoria's outraged expression. "Madam. I only speak the truth in defense of a man I greatly admired, a dear friend. You do not approve?"

"What made you think I would?" she shot back, her tone low and furious.

Morgan paused to assess her carefully. This was why he had invited her: he knew it would be relatively easy for him to flush out her true allegiances and priorities, once he began attacking the bastard that had caused everyone so much trouble. It appeared that she was not so annoyed or even dispassionate about the mongrel as he had supposed. He began to wonder about the rest of the family. If they **_had_** truly taken up the cause of the bastard and this infuriating Marshal Smith – well, it was too bad, but perhaps it couldn't be helped. He would just have to treat them all as hostiles.

Morgan shrugged, nodded his thanks to Victoria for clarifying where she stood, and then turned his attention back to Tom's whelp. Now that the boy was full-grown, Morgan could see the resemblance was indeed striking. Tom, though, had been huskier, shaggier, and certainly jollier and much better fed. The bastard son was staring at him now, deeply wary. _As you should be, boy._

"So, Thomson, small world."

"You said that already."

"So I did. I simply find it remarkable how events have brought us all back together in this way." He smiled pleasantly at Victoria, who met his look with all the stillness and lethality of a seasoned gunfighter.

 _She does seem to be a worthy opponent,_ he mused, _and opponent she is, that's clear. Now perhaps we'll see what she knew of her husband._

"I thought very highly of Tom Barkley," he said to her. "He was supportive, generous with whatever advice and assistance he could offer to a young, inexperienced army officer like myself – and **_very_** appreciative of what I could do for him in return." He tipped his head, the smallest hint of a gesture in Heath's direction. "Your husband really helped me get my start, back in '61. It was a great day for me, the day he and I met in Placerville, and he introduced me to Alex Major."

Morgan kept his eyes on Victoria. Her hostile expression did not change. She had not yet grasped his unspoken message. Smith was frowning, beginning to understand. Morgan, however, did not miss the subtle reaction of the young man standing before his desk, the reaction for which he'd been waiting. A quick glance over told him his first lance had landed true: Thomson had the stunned look of a fatally wounded man whose legs hadn't yet gotten the bad news.


	52. Chapter 51 - Shots Were Fired

_Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law  
_ _My services are bound. Wherefore should I  
_ _Stand in the plague of custom, and permit  
_ _The curiosity of nations to deprive me?_

 _William Shakespeare, "King Lear"_

* * *

 ** _Internment Camp, Sunset, December 2, 1874_**

" _Frank_."

Frank Sawyer jumped about a foot sideways, badly startled and loudly demonstrating the wide variety of ways a man can take the Lord's name in vain when he's been scared out of his wits.

" _Dammit,_ Jed," he complained, glaring at the young deputy.

Jed touched the brim of his hat in greeting, ducking his head to conceal his hint of a grin at Frank's reaction. He cleared his throat. "Evenin', Marshal," he said, respectfully. He glanced up to make sure Frank had calmed down and was in a proper state of mind to listen. "Jarrod sent me. He says it's time we made good use of you as a JP."

"What, **_now_** those two kids suddenly decide to get married? Seems we're kinda busy at the moment."

"No sir, nothing to do with that. Jarrod's closing deals up in Sonora. You and I got a lot of paperwork to do, and fast, so's I can ride it back up to him ASAP. And he said we need that Headwoman, what was her name – Haja, to help us get this done right."

Frank flagged over one of his deputies and sent him off to bring Haja to him, then he turned back to Jed with eager interest. "Jarrod did it, then? In one afternoon?"

Jed grinned openly now and nodded. Frank smiled back.

"This is gonna be good. Grab that lantern. Let's get started."

* * *

 ** _Command Tent, Night, December 2, 1874_**

Major Henry James Mills stood unseen in the shadows outside the command tent and tried to listen as the parlay with Marshal Smith unfolded. He held the papers and maps Jed had given him. He had reviewed them carefully, looking for flaws or loopholes. He understood what he had been handed, and he understood the implications. He was not a foolish man, or a stupid one, except when he was ordered to carry out tasks that were foolish and stupid. Unfortunately, increasingly, his duties as Morgan's second-in-command were exactly that. He had felt like an idiot confronting Marshal Smith, parroting his father's cocktail-hour tirades and acting like a schoolyard bully.

Major Mills – Jimmy – allowed himself to have that thought. He'd had it before, but always banished it quickly. This time, however, he allowed the thought to remain. The idea grew and moved and took on depth and meaning. Soon a stream of adjectives – _foolish, stupid, illegal, cruel, immoral -_ began flowing through his mind, swirling around that idea and swelling into a river that would soon wash him irrevocably down a different path.

Mills would present the reality of these papers to Morgan, but he needed to see the proper moment when Morgan could stop and listen to him. Right now the colonel was engaged in verbally and physically abusing the Barkley bastard whom Smith had brought along as his deputy. Morgan's aim in this was to fan conflict, and to unsettle and enrage Marshal Smith and his wife.

This was a tactic he'd seen Morgan use often, on both a small and large scale. He used it to great effect up in the Klamath last year, to destabilize both sides during the parlay to end the Modoc War. In a moment of flaring anger and emotion, shots were fired into the command tent where the parlay was taking place. Canby and the minister were killed, and the Modoc War raged on for another 88 deaths and the exile of a whole tribe.

 _Shots were fired._ Jimmy rubbed his forehead again and admitted to himself that the small stream of words he had let loose in his mind would not remain confined. Words became thoughts, thoughts became ideas and questions, and these overflowed the banks, cutting new channels and flooding into uncharted spaces. _Shots were fired. Let's be honest, since that seems to be where this river is going. **I** fired those shots. **I** killed the general and the minister because that's what my father and the colonel ordered me to do._

Mills turned his attention back to the present, putting aside for now his thoughts about the Modoc War; that was already over a year ago. In the tent, one of his lieutenants was now restraining Cpt. Ryan from attacking Marshal Smith. It was Lt. Johnston, he noticed. Even in the dim light, Mills could recognize him by that birthmark that looked as though ink had stained the skin of his neck. Ryan was in a spitting rage, and Johnston was doing his best to be respectful, while still telling his senior officer to settle down because he was acting crazy.

 _Not an easy balance to strike,_ Mills thought. _That's the same officer that stopped his squad from firing into the camp. He'd best be careful – Morgan is already starting to notice him, and not in a good way._

Morgan, meanwhile, had resumed speaking, in tones that would suggest to a casual listener that a civilized conversation was taking place. Mills, of course, knew it was nothing of the sort. He could see the rising levels of distress, especially in the deputy. He stepped closer to hear more clearly.

"Do you remember, Thomson?" Morgan was saying cheerfully, as though reminiscing with an old friend. "That was a **_good_** day. I'd helped Tom close a supply deal with the cavalry that morning, to his considerable advantage, and he was grateful and in a fine mood. He went out of his way to help me out, to give me a leg up in life. His enthusiastic endorsement, his support, his warm introductions to men like Alex – these were gifts he offered me freely, and I did everything I could to repay his generosity." He smiled broadly at Victoria, as if he was only sharing a happy memory of her beloved husband.

Victoria felt queasy. She was stunned into horrified silence by the blunt cruelty of Morgan's words, and all the more so because she could see her husband so clearly in his description.

 _He went out of his way to help me out, to give me a leg up in life._

That **_was_** Tom Barkley – expansive, affectionate, generous to a fault at times. A charismatic optimist, but deeply, ferociously protective of his own.

She felt the rising tension in her own body and realized she was bracing herself for the blow to follow. Just as sure as she knew the sun had set, she was certain of what Morgan would tell her next. Pale and silent and rigid, Heath met her eyes with a solitary look of remorse and apology, and she could see he knew it too.

"He recognized the boy right away," Morgan shared with her gleefully. "Oh yes, **_immediately_** , and I saw it. Tom Barkley was valuable to me, you see, and so I watched him – watched _over_ him – very closely. But **_then_** – oh, then came the amusing part. He recognized the kid, and then he set to work convincing himself that he **_hadn't_**. The boy was too _old_ , he said, he couldn't _possibly_ be a child he fathered during that dalliance in Strawberry, because _that_ was only twelve or thirteen years ago, and these mail riders are **_much_** older than that." Chuckling over his sarcastic imitation of Barkley's rationalizations, Morgan saw his guests react to the mention of Strawberry, just as he expected they would.

Heath felt himself shaking with rage at the torment this man was causing Victoria; almost as strong was his fury that Morgan was using him as a weapon to batter these two people he loved. He thought he might shatter with the strain of holding still; every time he moved, the officers around him leaned in and growled, panting to beat him back down into the dirt.

He could call up that day in Placerville from his memory and see it all, clear as crystal. It **_had_** been a good day: a great run on his favorite horse; a small bonus from his boss; his pay sent up to Mama; and then news of a possible steady job with the cavalry. The Pony Express was shutting down, and he had not yet figured out what could take its place. The sharp, friendly young captain seemed to have the perfect answer. He felt lucky.

He had been young and swift and tireless then, not yet the lame, scarred, haunted man it seemed he had become. Then, he had been a boy full of the beauty of mountains and lakes and woods; a sapling busting with green life; he was a forest spirit at one with the energy and speed of his horse. Heath could see the three men on the porch as he pulled up from his run, proud of what he and his horse had done together. He could see Alex Major, coming to greet him; and Morgan, in a cavalry uniform, measuring his ability. He turned in his mind, now, to look at the third man, the rancher, and he knew for a truth it was his father. There now was a face to go with the commanding, urgent voice that had rung through the blind darkness of Sutamasina.

His father had been smiling with his friends as he leaned against the railing. He was relaxed and confident; his trail clothes, hat and gun belt were dusty and well-used, but expensive and nicely made. He had a brilliant smile, and he was laughing with Alex as Heath rode up to the station. Heath remembered clearly thinking it was an inviting laugh, one that made you want to join in the conversation.

The rancher's eyes had met his, as Heath mounted the steps to the station office with Alex. Just for a moment, they met _-_ and the laughter died. The smile abruptly vanished.

Heath had dropped his gaze and moved on without a pause, or even much of a concern. He'd never thought of it again until this moment. Growing up as he did, he was accustomed to folks taking offense if he was too forward, or overstepped himself in respectable society. Such a reaction was not unfamiliar, and it was certainly a sight better than a boot, or a broomstick, or a swinging fist.

Heath was transfixed by the memory, his pupils so dilated that his wide, staring blue eyes looked black in the low light of the tent. He was dizzy, breathless. He heard the rancher of his memory talking with Morgan, out on the porch, as Heath dropped off his mail pouch in the office and collected his pay. The rancher laughed again, but now it was a different laugh, nervous and forced.

 _"There's never a good time to have skeletons fall out of one's closet, is there, eh, Harrison?_ "

Morgan moved suddenly, stepping forward from his desk.

Heath startled and backed up slightly, feeling hunted and desperate as he focused his eyes back on the colonel. He was aware something in his heart was being crushed, aware that he was being ground into the dirt under Morgan's heel. Every muscle in his body was wound up in painful knots. He felt he was barely breathing.

Morgan's eyes were bright and focused on his weakening prey. He could see the boy's defenses failing, and he laughed warmly as he continued his tale. "Tom and I watched you ride in, boy, while Alex praised you to us for breaking the speed record for a second time. You were quite the rider, by the way. I might've considered actually recruiting you to the cavalry, if you'd been a year or two older. You, however, needed to be **_gone._** You were a Barkley liability, boy, and getting rid of you was the least I could do for Tom. What better way to accomplish that, than sign you on under my command? Once you enlisted, Thomson, you were **_mine_** , and I could send you anywhere I wanted."

* * *

 ** _Marshal's Office, Sonora, California, Evening, December 2, 1874_**

"Sheriff Thomas? **_No_**. I'll be damned." Montana bounded out onto the sidewalk to embrace his old friend and former colleague. "Ol' Sheriff Thomas -! **_Damn_** , it's good to see you, y'old grizzly! Limp on over here. Now look, you're not movin' too bad. I always did think you gave up bein' a lawman just outta pure laziness."

"Raul, get me a chair and a cuppa coffee, for pity's sake. I can barely feel my legs, we been riding six hours flat out." Thomas grinned with the happy exhaustion of an important task completed; especially happy because of the pride he felt in his two sons. They were growing into their vocation in visible leaps and bounds since they'd gotten out from under that rattlesnake Peale.

"Gentlemen, c'mon in and take a load off. We've got food, and drink, and extra chairs to put your feet up on, and extra table space to get a look at this evidence Jim Roberts is all over the moon about. I've already wired our circuit judge and the AG in Washington to give'm a heads up. This could get complicated – different jurisdictions, different chains a' command. We'll get started going through it all; but I think we're gonna need Jarrod Barkley and Johnny to shake loose ASAP from the standoff down at the camp, just to sort out how to use all this."


	53. Chapter 52 - Fire Answers Fire

_From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,  
_ _The hum of either army stilly sounds,  
_ _That the fixed sentinels almost receive  
_ _The secret whispers of each other's watch;  
_ _Fire answers fire; and through their paly flames,  
_ _Each battle sees the other's umbered face  
_ _Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighs,  
_ _Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents,  
_ _The armourers accomplishing the knights,  
_ _With busy hammers closing rivets up,  
_ _Give dreadful note of preparation._

 _William Shakespeare, "Henry V"_

* * *

 ** _Train Station, Stockton, California, Nighttime, December 2, 1874_**

Jim Roberts gave Christopher a reassuring smile and nodded toward the train. "Get moving, kid, and you send me a wire as soon as you're settled in San Francisco, you hear?"

Christopher returned the smile though his anxiety was evident. "I sure will. And thanks – thanks very much." He looked as though he wanted to say more. The train whistle blew, so he just stuck out his hand and Roberts shook it warmly. Then he ran across the platform with a small bag in his hand, jumped gracefully up into the slowly moving passenger car, and disappeared from view.

Roberts turned to the man standing beside him. Sheriff Madden was shaking his head in bemusement.

"That boy's got some courage. Too bad he's all upside-down in other ways."

"Well I hope and pray we don't need him to testify. The fact that he's willing to is frankly astonishing to me, considering what that would be like for him. He's either one of the bravest citizens I've ever known, or completely clueless, and I'm near certain he isn't **_that_**." The train lights moved out of sight. Roberts shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to go. "Appreciate you witnessing what he had to say about Peale's "escort service" operation here, and bringing in a court recorder you trust. We've got a nice list of rich and powerful men Peale has compromised, men who would like nothing more than to have this information disappear. I didn't want to take any chances."

Madden tipped his head down the unlit tracks. "That kid got somewhere to go in 'Frisco?"

Roberts grinned. "Yeah, I got cousins, big in the restaurant business. They're expecting him. And he wants to get away from this vile operation of Peale's. He might be all upside-down, but that don't mean he's gotta be sold to entertain some big shot with money." His face darkened slightly as he remembered some of Christopher's frank and unembellished testimony. Then he brightened. "Now, Madden, you promised to get me in to see the judge tonight. Then I've got to get going back up to Jamestown. I've got a warrant to serve."

 ** _Command Tent, Night, December 2, 1874_**

John had had just about enough of the colonel's baiting. He saw tears coming to Victoria's eyes, and he stepped forward to shield her, glowering down at Morgan. "That's quite enough, Colonel. You and I have things to discuss. Why don't you save your nasty sniping for your next tea social in the city, and let my wife and –" he paused. His sudden silence drew Heath's attention away from his remorseful contemplation of Victoria, to look questioningly at John. John stared back at him, thoughtful, and – surprisingly – suddenly calm.

"Let your wife and…?" Morgan prompted in an insulting, insinuating voice.

John turned his gray eyes back to Morgan and took a moment to unclench his fists. Took a slow breath. "As I was saying. You and I need to discuss terms. My wife and –" He looked at Heath. "- and **_son_** don't need to be subject any longer to your unpleasantness."

Morgan turned to face John, his eyes narrowed, an eager malice distorting his otherwise handsome face. There was some unsettled murmuring among his officers in the tent as their colonel's behavior became increasingly venomous and emotional.

"I disagree, Marshal. They will remain _subject_ for as long as I say." He began pacing in front of his desk. "Your **_son._** Have you lost your mind, Marshal?" He glanced at Victoria again and laughed meanly. "Or do you feel so flush, having latched onto the Barkley fortune, that you feel you can start picking up other people's **_trash_** and adopting strays? No, hold your tongues, both of you," he ordered, as John and Victoria began to respond. "Snipers. I have snipers targeting this tent. You two will have a seat and shut up, or I will tell them to open fire. Madame Victoria will be first. Do you understand me?"

There was a shocked silence in the tent, and then, for Heath, a terrifying several seconds when both John and Victoria refused to back down.

"Mother. John. _Please_ –", Heath begged them quietly, and to his huge relief, they complied, both staring daggers at the colonel. Morgan advanced again on Heath.

"Now, Thomson, here's a funny thing that's bothered me for all these years, and I'm hoping you can explain it. Barkley seemed actually to **_remember_** you, that day in Placerville. This was intriguing to me. Can you think of any other time that you and he might have crossed paths? The sight of you **_bothered_** him terribly. It **_Bothered_** him. Victoria, _you_ at least know Tom was not an easily bothered man. In this instance, though - he was in quite a rush to explain this annoyance away. I'd never seen him in a twist quite like that in any other situation since. Any ideas why? No? Pity."

Morgan resumed pacing, waving a silencing hand at his two seated captives. "Now, Marshal, don't be impatient. I'm getting to you soon enough. So, Thomson, you were mine, and I could send you anywhere I wanted. Anywhere at all. I could've kept you safe in San Francisco mucking stalls. But as I said, you were a liability, and I recruited you for the sole purpose of sending you away. Good riddance to unnecessary trash. I never thought you'd survive training with Belker's sharpshooter squad, much less make it out of Tennessee alive.

"So imagine my surprise and disappointment when I came across you **_again_** in New Mexico. I considered just killing you myself, at that point, out of pure annoyance. Wouldn't have taken much. You weren't much more than a beaten up pile of skin and bones by then, with a back that looked like you'd spent the whole war as a field slave in the Deep South. That alone let me know that Bentell had found you as much of a nuisance as I did.

"I will say that area of agreement gave Bentell and me some common ground to get acquainted and work out his plea deal. He did some good work for me right after the war. But that's beside the point."

At the mention of Bentell, Lt. Johnston – who had been increasingly disturbed by his commander's trajectory – looked up sharply, and found his own common ground with several other men in the tent who were having a similar reaction. Johnston quietly moved to the unlit perimeter of the tent and vanished unnoticed into the dark, followed soon after by two other lieutenants.

"I didn't need Tom Barkley nearly so much by that time. I was making my own deals and connections by then. Tom's reputation was still so **_useful_** , though. Up in the Mother Lode with the mine workers, down on the flats with the Diggers that we were rounding up for indenture – I'll tell you, with the Barkley name in my pocket, I could convince workers of almost anything. They'd believe all **_kinds_** of benefits were coming their way. They'd sign on just hearing Tom Barkley was backing the job, and never question the terms.

"So I didn't want a skeleton like **_you_** , Thomson – pun intended - falling out of Tom's closet and making a mess. You seem to have a talent for that – making messes. I just needed to knock you off course, make sure you had no credibility, no stake. I figured the dishonorable discharge – or a court martial, if you pushed me to it - would knock you down so far you'd **_never_** come back up to the light of day.

"And yet here you are **_again_** , like a bad penny. You just won't stay gone. You just won't stay **_out of my way_**."

Morgan spun on John now, flushed, unable to stop his tirade. "Three months ago, Marshal, they were about to hand me a General's commission. There was talk of travel to Washington, even a meeting with the President, who wanted my advice on the future development of the western states and the Indian problem. Plans were made for parties at the Governor's mansion; celebrations; speeches had been written and rehearsed.

"And then **_you_** came back to California, Smith. Of all the things you could have demanded when you accepted the post of Marshal, you had to challenge my ruling on the dishonorable discharge of this stray-dog, misbegotten, non-com ** _nobody_** , who wasn't even supposed to **_survive_** the war! Oh, they reviewed my decision all right, Smith. Yes, they reviewed it, and reversed it, and then they gave the goddamned mongrel a **_medal_**. They called **_me_** in to explain myself. **_ME_**. Graciously, they said they would not pursue any further disciplinary action, but my promotion would be on hold, for now. _So sorry, Colonel,_ and _get along now back to California_ , _Colonel_ – so I could be the Governor's maid service, cleaning up the last of the Digger vermin hiding in the mountains.

"I was **_so_** pleased to hear you planned to get in my way, Smith. Saved me having to go look for you. And Thomson here is just the little bonus you brought along with." He moved in close to look Heath in the eye. "He'll be staying as my guest for the time being. Madame, you can leave now." He motioned to two of his men. "Please see the lady out."

Both John and Heath stepped protectively toward Victoria as the two officers moved to escort her out of the tent. Morgan stopped them with a word. "Snipers." He waved to the officers to continue. "She will arrive safely, Smith, do not worry."

The two men waited for what seemed an eternity until they saw the two officers returning, and saw Victoria with a marshal, distant in the lamplight of the stockade gate. Smith felt himself relax very slightly, but until at least one of his other prongs of attack came into play, he was trapped helpless in the tent, playing for time. He was groping for another delaying strategy, when he heard something unexpected. Heath was laughing.

"Morgan, are you really that pathetic?"

The colonel lashed out with no hesitation, backhanding Heath and sending him staggering, once again, into the eager hands of Cpt. Ryan. Ryan, this time, decided to deliver a more thorough beating.

A few minutes later, Morgan was standing over Heath with an expression of puzzlement, watching him bleed from the mouth and nose and struggle to draw breath. "Sergeant, isn't it, now? Staff Sergeant Thomson. Such **_honors_** they restored to you," he remarked sarcastically. "A rank any other Barkley man would be ashamed of. No other man in your so-called family – including Marshal Smith – entered the army at anything less than rank of lieutenant. You ever discuss that with your "brothers"? Or is it too uncomfortable a subject?"

He shook his head at the man on the ground. "What are you **_thinking_** , mouthing off to me, boy? You think I won't have these men beat you to a pulp?"

Heath groaned and coughed faintly as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Thought maybe I'd get more'n a sentence or two out 'fore you put me down," he grunted. He made it onto his knees and slowly sat back, looking up at the colonel, squinting to get him in focus.

"Fine, Thomson, let's hear a sentence or two from you before I finish you off." He waited, eyes glittering and eager.

"I was twelve years old, Morgan, when I met you. You were an officer of the cavalry. I **_trusted_** you. I did my best in basic training. I was a good worker. I thought everything would be fine and my Mama was wrong to worry." Morgan rolled his eyes and turned away as if bored. Heath kept talking.

"When I got that transfer order to Missouri, I knew I probably wouldn't make it back. I could see it in the lieutenant's eyes when he handed me my orders, I could hear it in the way the sergeants talked when they shoved me on that train like a steer to the slaughterhouse. I knew you were sending me to die. I just never knew **_why_**. So it almost didn't surprise me three years later to see it was you again throwin' me out on the trash heap. Now, at least –" He shifted, wincing. "- at least I know why." His eyes followed Morgan as the colonel walked pensively back to his desk and picked up a long ceremonial riding cane, the top decorated with a brass horse's head. Heath swallowed and glanced nervously at John.

"Maybe my father did wanna get rid of me," Heath said as though talking to himself. "He didn't want to _know_ about me, that seems pretty sure, and people convince themselves all the time that they don't see things they wish weren't there. It's not something to admire about the man. But did he want me **_dead_**? Maybe you imagine he did, but I got no reason to believe that of him." He looked back up at Morgan, who was approaching with the leather-wrapped cane in both hands. "I believe it of **_you_** , though, Morgan. You traded the life of a twelve-year-old boy for the sake of some business opportunities. And now how many people are you willing to kill to get that promotion you want? It's pathetic. It's ridiculous." He watched the cane rise. "You're not a leader, Morgan. You're a plague."

The pain of the blow that slashed down on him was overwhelming. Morgan had struck him with the brass-weighted grip end of the regimental cane; Heath had gotten his arms up in time to keep the metal from dealing him a lethal injury to the head, but the impact instead landed full force on the bones of his elbow. The agony dropped him again to the ground, nauseated and immobilized with the pain, his arm hanging useless at his side.

He could hear Morgan panting in a rage over him. Heath had felt very clear-headed for the few moments he decided to bait Colonel Morgan. That clarity was receding rapidly. The cane lifted again, and as Heath watched, the mane of the brass horse seemed to lift and wave in the lamplight. The ground beneath him moved and breathed, and every second that passed Heath felt further away from himself. He thought it likely he was about to die a very painful death.

John hadn't taken his eyes off of Heath, not once, since he had drawn Morgan's attack; Heath had the odd sensation for a moment that John's eyes were the only thing still keeping him there in the tent. There came a rush of motion by the desk, and a big officer hurried to Morgan's side with urgent words and a pile of papers. Morgan lowered the cane and turned away from him; John looked away from him, and Heath didn't remember anything after that.


	54. Chapter 53 - Reckoning

_A People and their King  
Through ancient sin grown strong,  
Because they feared no reckoning  
Would set no bound to wrong;  
But now their hour is past,  
And we who bore it find  
Evil Incarnate held at last  
To answer to mankind._

 _Rudyard Kipling, "Justice"_

* * *

 ** _Internment Camp, Nighttime, December 2, 1874_**

Jarrod pulled out of a gallop at the stockade gate. He was out of the saddle and hurrying to his mother before Jingo had come to a complete stop.

"Mother, are you OK? Did anyone hurt you? Where's John?" He held her gently but urgently at arm's length, taking in the tears on her face and the frightened, outraged fury that was blazing in her eyes. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Morgan has snipers on John and Heath up there. **_Snipers_** , Jarrod. He threatened to shoot me first unless we sat there and listened to his whole horrible vendetta. He's insane. He wants to kill Heath and destroy John, and he's perfectly happy to slaughter anyone else that stands in his way." She was breathless, shaking with a murderous rage of her own.

"Kill Heath? What's his connection to Heath?" Jarrod was deeply worried by the look on his mother's face. _What the hell did that monster say to her?_

"I'll fill you in later – I just can't right now, it's too – Oh, Jarrod, we have to get them **_out_** of there."

A rider was approaching rapidly from the direction of the army encampment. He pulled up and dismounted a small distance away when two marshals, guns drawn, called him to halt. He walked the rest of the way, quickly, his hands raised.

"Mr. Barkley, Ma'am, I'm Lt. Johnston, with B Company." He was slightly out of breath. "I wanted to let you know, first of all, that there are no snipers currently on Marshal Smith or his deputy. I've stood them down on the orders of Major Mills. The Major also informed me of the documents you are carrying, Mr. Barkley. I'm here to escort you up to the tent. And if you don't mind my saying so, sir, I'm dearly hoping you can put a stop to this thing."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. It's a relief to hear some more civilized heads are prevailing. I'm ready to go."

Victoria put a hand on his arm. "Jarrod, did you come through our camp? Is everything OK up there?"

He smiled a bit grimly. "All quiet and secure at the moment. Just after sunset, I'm told, a handful of Morgan's thugs came sniffing around the camp and gave Audra and Hekeke a scare – but then they met my little brother Nick. The three of them routed those boys but **_good_**. They went running back to their own people with their tails between their legs, is what I hear."

"Oh, thank God," Victoria murmured. She felt a warm, comforting hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Haja, who offered her an encouraging smile.

"The wind is shifting, I can feel it," she said seriously. She narrowed her eyes at Jarrod and paused as if weighing her next words. "So, Mr. Barkley. I understand you **_bought_** us. **_All_** of us. The whole village."

Victoria looked at her son in shock. Jarrod eyes were wide with guilt, sadness - and determination. He faced Haja, ready to accept her condemnation. "Haja, I am so sorry. I can't even begin to say. I didn't know how else to – we – we were so short on time. Please forgive me."

She came closer, staring him hard in the eyes, and was silent. He held her gaze, bravely, waiting. Then her round face broke into a smile.

"Smart thinking, White Man. **_That_** was a coyote move if ever I've seen one. I wish I could go with you to see Morgan's face when you drop this on his desk." She threw her head back and laughed out loud.

Jarrod blushed scarlet and nearly sagged with relief. He had filled out purchase documents for the indenture of every single Miwok man, woman, and child in the internment camp, with their name, approximate date of birth, identifying marks and family ties, each purchase certified by Justice of the Peace Frank Sawyer. Even knowing his reasons and intent, still, every single signature Jarrod placed on those documents felt like a bruise upon his soul. Haja hugged him, and he smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Haja, I needed that, truly." Reaching an arm around his mother's slim shoulders, he pulled her close to his side as well and inclined his head to the two women with a conspiratorial grin. "You should also know - I purchased today 640 acres of land: a lovely tract that includes this farmstead. It reaches well beyond Sullivan's Creek over yonder, which should provide a nice water source. Ladies, I'm about to throw Col. Morgan and his two companies **_off – my - land_**."

 ** _Command Tent, Night, December 2, 1874_**

Morgan was fuming over the maps and documents Mills had laid out before him on the desk. Behind him, Heath was slowly getting to his feet. John rose to go to him.

"Don't even think about it, Smith," Morgan warned, without turning around. "One more step toward that boy and I'll have him shot dead right there in front of you."

 _Dammit._ John gritted his teeth and cursed his trapped position. He was listening intently for Jarrod's approach, and hoped that what they had gotten into Mills' hands would be enough to slow down Morgan's race toward massacre. He watched Heath move slowly, sluggishly, cradling his left arm against his body. There was a distant, disconnected look in his eyes that John did not like in the least. Heath wasn't looking at him anymore, or anything else, it seemed, and John was in an agony of wanting to go to his side and check on him.

"Ryan!" Morgan's bark was irritated, impatient. The captain snapped to attention.

"Sir!"

"You and Hooper. Get him out of here." A jerk of his head in Heath's direction. "I don't care what you do with him. If he's still alive when you're done, lock him up somewhere."

"Yes, sir!"

Ryan's eyes shone. Suppressing the happy grin that would have marred his stern military mien, Ryan waved over Hooper, and the two men hustled Heath, unresisting, out into the dark.

John was desperate. "Morgan, what are you doing? Let him go. There's nothing else you're going to accomplish tonight. Let's cool off and meet again in the morning. You have me. _Please_. You don't need to hurt him."

"Yes, I do, Smith." Morgan turned away from the papers and maps to glare at John.

"Why?"

"Because I **_can_** , Smith. Because it hurts you. Because it makes me feel better. Is that plain enough for you?"

"Sounds plain enough to me, Morgan. Insane, and utterly illegal, but plain." Jarrod entered the tent and approached the desk with all the breezy confidence one would expect for an open-and-shut case in his home court. He scanned the dimly lit space, and the veneer of good humor abruptly vanished.

"Where's my brother, Colonel?"

Morgan shrugged and waved his hand vaguely out toward the army encampment. "I asked a few of my more reliable men to –" He tilted his head, and decided for the moment to dispense with all euphemisms. "I assigned two of my men to beat him to death, or nearly so, using whatever method they preferred."

Jarrod turned to John and spoke clearly for the whole assembled group to hear. "Snipers have been removed. You're clear – go find Heath. I'll do the legal stuff."

John was out of the tent and gone before Morgan could protest. The accuracy of Jarrod's statement was evident: no gunfire followed the marshal's pursuit. Suppressing a sigh of relief that Johnston had been truthful and correct about the shooters, Jarrod turned now to play his cards with the colonel.

"I see Major Mills has given you the preliminary information, Colonel. I have here the final documents, all sealed and certified. In summary: I own this land on which your troops are standing; I own the farm you have been using as a prison; I own the creek from which you've been drawing water; **_and_** I own the indenture of every single Indian in that internment camp."

With each statement, Jarrod placed another official, signed, and sealed document on the desk. His eyes were cold as ice. "Moreover, Colonel, I have here wired instructions – no, **_orders_** – to transmit to you: You are ordered, immediately and without delay, to remove your soldiers and all associated materiel from the boundaries of my land (which are clearly marked here, and here, and here); said order coming directly from the Governor of California. Further, I have here confirmation from the Attorney General of the United States that my purchase of the indenture of any Indian creates the legal protections of personal property, upon which you may not forcibly infringe without incurring for yourself **_personally_** a felony indictment and a prompt court martial." Jarrod swallowed back the toxic taste those words left in his mouth. He glared his challenge around the room at the remaining circle of officers still willing to follow Morgan's agenda. "That applies as well to **_all_** of you gentlemen, by the way. Felony. Court martial. Et cetera." He paused, letting it sink in. "Any questions?"


	55. Chapter 54 - Shadows

_Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,  
Which show like grief itself, but are not so:  
For sorrow's eye glazed with blinding tears,  
Divides one thing entire to many objects._

 _William Shakespeare, "Richard II"_

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, May 1859_**

He stared wide-eyed at the sky, parched and thirsting to drink up every hint of sight the universe was willing to grant. Hazy shapes of orange, blue, black and brown moved and shifted. Light waxed and waned in rhythm with the heat of the sun that he could feel on his skin. A restless, cool breeze gusted, stealing away the thin springtime warmth; it swirled around him and briefly lifted the shaggy blonde hair from the brow of his up-tilted face.

Heath sat on the pine planks of the back porch of the cabin, his splinted leg propped up on a folded blanket. He shivered in the chill, but there was no way he was going to complain. He'd spent the morning convincing his Mama to let him sit outside instead of being stuck indoors on his cot. Since Hannah had gotten them back home, Mama and Rachael had insisted on pulling his bed out of his curtained corner of the common room and placing it in easy view, right by the cooking area, "so we can keep a close eye on you." He was stir-crazy, bored, and starving for fresh air. Even blind, he could feel the weight of their watch over him, their worry. Outside was better. He took a deep breath in, smelling sap and wood smoke and damp soil.

 _Those must be branches moving in the wind. Shadows and sun. I can see some color, I'm sure of it now._

He waved his hands in front of his face, then dropped them into his lap, disappointed. He could make out no detail; could sense only the changing intensity of light.

In his dreams he could still see, sometimes so vividly he couldn't stop himself weeping from the loss when he awoke. He did his best to hide this from his family, and to conceal also the nightmares that seemed to have followed him home. He tried instead to imagine his leg and his sight all healed up; he pictured himself running through the woods, heart pounding with speed and freedom and his eyes full of light.

His mother stepped out onto the porch. He heard her soft intake of breath; then, as happened so often now, she held that breath, silently, for just a heartbeat or two, until she could trust her voice to speak without fear or sadness. She sat down beside him. "Hey, baby," she said in her easy drawl.

"Hey, Mama," he answered, still staring at the moving sky. He could feel her worried eyes on his face – her casual tone didn't fool him. "Mama, isn't there _something_ I can do besides sit? I'm goin' crazy, and Aunt Rachael's run out of books to read to me, and besides she's got plenty to do besides sit by me readin'. Can't I peel potatoes – or mash up corn meal – or _anything_?"

"I don't know, honey – I don't know what you can do if you can't – if –" Her fear for him – for what might become of him - was starting to bubble up and spill into her words and her voice. She paused, deliberately, and gathered in her thoughts and feelings. When next she spoke, it was with his Mama's gritty, optimistic, survivor's determination that he recognized and knew well.

"Y'know what, baby? I just realized, with that busted leg, you're stuck here at home – and I'm gonna put you to work. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. You can't go runnin' off to the smithy or wherever hell and gone that catches your fancy. Right now you're _mine_ , baby, and I've got a whole list of things for you to do."

"Startin' with these wild onions, and these strawberries, and this whole mess of pine nuts to pull out," said Hannah, plunking down a basket full of greens and berries and two burlap sacks full of digger* pinecones she'd foraged in the woods nearby. "Leah, grab that paring knife and the cutting board from the kitchen. Heath, child, you know what to do. I'll get you some bowls to put everything in."

He felt his mother press the well-used but sharp knife into his hand. She put the cutting board on his lap, and showed him by touch where to put the greens and berries as he finished cleaning and trimming them. Completing that task, he moved on to the bags of sticky green pine cones. He used the knife to slice down the side and extract the nuts to put in one bowl, then he would trim off the outer shell and keep the sappy core of the cone for Hannah to roast later into a sweet, syrupy pudding.

These pine cones, and this task, were familiar to Heath. He was initially hesitant and nervous, handling the knife without sight to guide him, but he soon settled into a steady, confident flow of work. He felt the setting sun warm on his face; he could see the orange and blue of the sky, his hands were busy, and he felt happier and more peaceful than he had in weeks. Hannah had hiked off into the woods to fill her basket with some more greens – dandelions, miner's lettuce, some fiddleheads – before it became full dark.

"You're almost halfway done, baby," his Mama said, bringing him a drink of water from the well. "And just think: you don't have to quit when it gets dark, 'cause that won't make a bit 'a difference to you." She kissed the indignant face he turned her way before he could offer a rebuke, and was glad to see him smile reluctantly. Laughing softly, she carried the bowls he'd filled into the kitchen, emptied them, and brought them back for him to fill again.

"Mama, when's Rachael going to be home?"

"She might decide to stay over with Mary tonight in town. She had a few fittings to do, might be dark once she's done." She stood to walk back into the house. "Don't you eat too many of those nuts, now, baby. Leave some for us."

She paused at the threshold, frowning as she scanned the darkening forest uneasily. She did not see or hear Hannah, who was long out of sight; nor did she see the man watching the house from a hidden place among the trees.

As the sun set, color and contrast in the world faded, and Heath had to push away a panicky feeling that he was losing his sight all over again. He closed his eyes for a while as he worked, finding it easier to pretend that was the only reason the world had gone dark. He listened to the mockingbird in the woods, and smiled to himself to hear the bird echo the songs Heath had invented for him.

 _If I'm gonna be stuck on this porch for a few weeks, I'll have time to come up with a few new ones for that bird to learn,_ he thought, as he dozed off. _That'll make Rachael laugh, though she'll try not to…_

The man's eyes had followed the tall brunette woman when she left to go into town; he had watched the Negro woman vanish into the woods. His eyes lingered now on the two that remained. Their blonde hair caught the low angle of the sun as they bent over their task; the woman laughed, kissed her son, and rose to go inside. The blind boy continued working steadily, his movement deft and precise. The day grew steadily darker. The boy leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, looking more careworn than anyone of that age should be. Surveying the woods and road once more, the man was reassured of their isolation, and thought to himself that perhaps the proper time had come.

* * *

 ** _Army Encampment, outside Sonora, California, Night, December 2, 1874_**

John sprinted out of the command tent desperate to find Heath. He was hugely relieved that Mills had interrupted the colonel when he did; had Morgan thought to take another shot at Heath with that brass-headed cane, John would have had to stop him and just take his chances with Morgan's threat of sniper fire.

Following a path guided by an unscientific mix of visual clues, instinct and many decades of experience, John found his way to a gully behind the army mess tent, poorly lit and deserted at this time of day. He heard threatening voices raised in argument, and other voices shouting orders in response. It didn't sound like a simple beat-down of an outnumbered man, and so John slowed his charge and took the opportunity to look before he jumped in.

"You're dead, boys. **_Over_**. Both of you punks. The Colonel ordered -"

"Colonel Morgan can't order you, or anyone, to break the law, Capt. Ryan, sir. Capt. Hooper, sir, please keep your hands on top of your head. I don't want to have to shoot you."

" ** _Shoot_** me? You don't have the guts, you –" The angry, taunting voice choked off in surprise when a warning shot echoed through the gully.

"Hands on top of your heads, sirs, thank you."

John stepped out into view and nodded at the two lieutenants covering Ryan and Hooper with their side arms. "Well done, gentlemen. When this unpleasant affair is over with, you might want to talk to me about a career in law enforcement. But I need to find Heath Barkley. Where is he?"

"I honestly don't know sir. These two had him down when we caught up with them, there was a hell of a struggle goin' on, but then as soon as we broke it up Barkley was gone. Vanished like a ghost. Couldn't even tell you which direction he went."

 _He'd go find Rivka. Even crazy out of his mind, he'd go find Rivka._ "You boys have any idea how bad he was hurt?"

"No sir. He disappeared right quick, though, that's a good sign, right?"

"Hope so."

John headed then back to the command tent, wanting to check on Jarrod before he continued on to the prison camp to find Heath. He was acutely aware he had left the attorney alone with a room full of potential hostiles. He dearly hoped the sheer weight of Jarrod's legal countermove had dropped enough of a roadblock to convince most of the officers to back away from the deadly course Morgan had set for them.

Morgan himself seemed unlikely to accept defeat or retreat. There was a violent, narcissistic drive at work in that man that was ravening after revenge and conquest. He was sickly in his soul and highly dangerous, so much so that apparently even Major James Henry Mills - that carefully groomed and trained attack dog - had seen it and come to his senses.

Arriving to the tent, John found Jarrod in serious conversation with Major Mills, taking notes by lamplight in his careful handwriting as they sat at the desk strewn with maps and legal documents. Morgan was nowhere to be seen. Most of the officers had remained but were in a state of limbo. Their posture and attention suggested to John that they were waiting on orders from Major Mills. Jarrod spotted John and waved him over.

"The danger is deflected but not gone completely," he said gravely. "Mills formally stated his intent to relieve Morgan of his command and withdraw the troops as the Governor ordered. There is a small cadre loyal to Morgan, however, and I can't imagine he'll just go lay down quietly and wait to be prosecuted. Unclear what his next move will be though. The Major tells me he has a wealth of information that will incriminate not only Morgan, but Martin Peale – and –" Jarrod looked with some sympathy at the younger man. "- and Congressman Mills, his father."

"I will also incriminate myself, Marshal, but before I take that step, I intend to effect the withdrawal of my men and arrange an orderly transfer of command."

"Understood, Major." John considered Mills' grave, disciplined demeanor. When they first met, Mills had seemed a polished, artificial tin soldier Morgan could wind up and point in whatever direction he pleased. John now was impressed and gratified to see Mills directing that discipline in the service of his duty and his own sense of honor. "I will welcome that." He looked at Jarrod. "Heath got loose but I don't know where he is. I'm heading to the enclosure to see if he's there. Do you want me to send you Frank or one or two of the deputies to shadow you until you finish here?"

"Yes, please do," Jarrod met John's worried eyes, thinking. "But find Heath. He'd go to Rivka. Don't you think?"

"My thoughts exactly." He lingered for a moment, regarding Jarrod, then shook his head with a smile. "Damn. You did some good work, counselor. And **_fast_**. I might be in some legal trouble myself once this dust settles. Maybe you can recommend a good lawyer?"

"Oh, I'll make sure you're taken care of, Marshal, don't you worry. Go find my brother."

There was some commotion and heated conversation occurring just inside the stockade gate when John arrived. Victoria, Frank, Haja and Jed were deep in discussion, but broke quickly to include John as he hurried to them. Victoria and Haja looked fearful and upset. Jed was restless and ready to start on whatever task he had set for himself. Frank was – well – John realized with a clench of anxiety in his gut that Frank was silent and brooding, and that worried him very much. There weren't many situations – or people - that could put that look on Frank's face. Unfortunately, John had had far too much opportunity to see that look on Frank over the past six months.

"Frank, what is it? What's wrong? Have you seen Heath? He got loose from a couple officers who had him, but I haven't caught up with him yet. Did he come through here?"

"No, he didn't, god _dammit_ ," he gritted out, and continued brooding.

Alarmed now, John turned to Victoria, who was standing arm-in-arm with Haja. "Tell me. What's happened?"

Haja answered him. "I tried to stop him, but he was crazy, he wouldn't listen me. He wouldn't listen."

"Who wouldn't listen, Haja? Did you see Heath?"

"No. It was Teleli. He was here, and he was crazy. He was talking about the Crying Woman, the woman spirit, that she was with child and the baby wasn't coming the way she should. He wanted my help, but I could tell it wasn't a healing I would know how to do. So I told him we could ask Rivka – oh, forgive me, it's my fault –"

"What's your fault, Haja?"

Haja looked tearfully at Victoria, who spoke for her. "Teleli took Rivka. He kidnapped her, and took her – we don't know where. Haja tells me that the men with Teleli are crazy too. They were threatening that if something bad happens to the Crying Woman, if Rivka can't fix the problem and the woman spirit or the baby don't survive, that they would kill Rivka too."

"Rivka's gone -?"

"Yes."

Jed spoke up. "I'm heading up to let Marshal Montana know that Teleli was here for sure, so we can start tracking him. He's still a fugitive, and now he's a kidnapper."

John sighed. "And no one's seen Heath."

"No." Victoria looked wide-eyed at John, fear in her voice. "No, we haven't seen him. You said he got free from Morgan's men, but we don't know where he is now, or whether he knows that Rivka was taken. We don't know if he's hurt, or even in his right mind."

* * *

 _But that I am forbid,  
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,  
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word  
Would harrow up thy soul._

 _William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"_

 ** _Strawberry, California, May, 1859_**

Heath woke abruptly to the sound of a door crashing open and his mother screaming. She was screaming his name, telling him to run, **_begging_** for him to run away; begging him, and then sobbing, sobbing, because she knew he couldn't. He couldn't get away. He couldn't run, and besides, he wouldn't run, even if he wasn't blind and broken.

"Heath! Run, baby, **_run_** , please –" There was another crash, and her voice was muffled and lost in the sounds of violence. Men. There were men crashing into the cabin, attacking his Mama. They had come back, laughing and angry and mindlessly feral. Boots shook the porch, and a big, breathless, growling man fell upon him, grabbing him and dragging him toward the door.

The bones of his broken leg shrieked in a blazing agony that lit up the inside of his skull and drained the strength from his muscles, but nothing existed for him in that moment except the need to get to his mother. Heath's hand closed tight around the handle of the paring knife and he slashed at the man with everything he hand.

He felt the blade sink in deep and hold. The man grunted, swore, and then as he sank to his knees, his body wrenched the blade out of Heath's weakening grip. Still swearing, but coughing wetly, the wounded man backhanded him hard across the face. Heath fell to the floor, stunned, winded, and weak as a newborn kitten.

"That's more like it," he heard another man growl in his ear. Hands grabbed him again and threw him face down onto the cot. The weight of the man on his back pinned him down; he struggled weakly but gained nothing.

"Goddamned punk. I think he killed Cliff! Goddamned backwoods punk –" The man was drunk; he was punching Heath as an angry punctuation to every second or third word.

His Mama was crying, fighting still, but Heath couldn't see her. He couldn't get to her. "Mama –" he croaked, "Mama – _no_ -" He tried again to throw the man off in a last burst of terror-driven strength, but only succeeded in making his attacker angrier.

A big hand seized his hair and shoved his face down into the bedding of the cot. Heath was rapidly suffocating, barely aware of the man pulling at his clothes. Hot breath and laughter filled his ears. There was no air left in his lungs, crushed as he was under this invading weight. There was no air to breathe, no sound he could make. His heart was breaking. He had brought catastrophe into their home, and he wasn't strong enough to keep this evil away from his family. Smothered into silence, his heart cried for his Mama, for Hannah, for Rachael. He thought he heard his mother cry for him, but she was so far away. They were all slipping so far away -

The ground disintegrated beneath him, crumbling and collapsing down into black.

 _I can't save her, please, save her, please -_

* * *

 _* Foothills pine; historically, called digger, Sabine, bull, gray or gray leaf pine. It has historically been named "digger pine" due to its wide use by Sierra Nevada Native American tribes who have collectively and colloquially been referred to as "diggers." That term has fallen into disgrace, as many Native Americans find the term 'digger' offensive, derogatory and insulting._

 _Regarding the name of the tree: the terms "foothills pine" or "gray pine" are officially preferred. Regarding how I refer to California Native Americans in this story: I've used the term "digger" intentionally (uncomfortably) as a derogatory epithet, spoken by characters I intended to portray as bigoted. I've also referred to Native Americans throughout the story as "Indians" (also uncomfortably), because that was the general term for that era, "Native American" not being a term in use in the 19th century._


	56. Chapter 55 - Far from the Feast

_Silence and love and deep wonder of stars_  
 _Dust-silver the heavens from west to east,_  
 _From south to north, and in a maze of bars_  
 _Invisible I wander far from the feast_  
 _As night grows old._

 _Half blind is my vision I know to the truth_

 _The moon has come. Wan and pallid is she._  
 _The spell of half memories, the touch of half tears,_  
 _And the wounds of worn passions she brings to me_  
 _With all the tremor of the far-off years_  
 _And their mad wrong._

 _William H. A. Moore, "Dusk Song"_

* * *

 _ **Internment Camp, Night, December 2, 1874**_

"We saw Me'weh," a small child's voice said emphatically.

The preoccupied adults gathered at the gate turned in surprise to see a small group of Miwok children looking up at them expectantly. Kono nudged his sister Malila to the front, clearly wanting her to repeat her message to the grown-ups.

Haja scowled at the little ones. "All of you should be in your sleeping areas with your families, not running around this camp in the middle of the night," she scolded. "And what do you mean, you saw Me'weh? When?"

Kono nudged Malila again. She spoke seriously to Haja. "Tonight. Not long ago. I don't know exactly. After sunset for sure." The other children nodded their heads in agreement.

Victoria knelt to be on eye level with Malila. "You saw him -? We're worried about him – do you know where he is?"

"He went up – into the mountains – to find Rivka." She looked up at the circle of concerned adult faces and fidgeted nervously, glancing at her brother. He nodded encouragingly.

"You tell, Malila. You tell it best."

"We were out near the barn," she began, indicating the other children with a wave of her hand, "because Kono saw the Ghost Dancers come out of the ground near the fence, and then they came looking for Haja. We followed because – well, we like their songs and stories, and besides Teleli is our cousin and we miss him a lot.

"But when we got there, and we heard what Haja said, we realized Teleli was scared for the _Osa Wakalali_ and would be leaving quickly to go back to her. They went inside, and we heard them angry and telling Rivka they'd hurt her if she couldn't save the spirit woman, and Haja telling them to stop, and so we were sad and scared and we hid until the Ghost Dancers were gone. When we came out from hiding we saw Me'weh. He was standing there looking at the barn, and at the sky, and then out at the hills in the dark."

"Was he hurt, Malila?"

"He was holding his arm, like this, and he was really sore, we could tell – and he had blood on him – but it wasn't that –"

"What do you mean it wasn't that?"

"He wasn't any more sore than he was when he climbed up out of that well," Kono interjected proudly, and a few of the other boys murmured agreement.

Jed couldn't help but smile at the proprietary confidence and esteem with which the children regarded their Me'weh. Husu had entertained him and Montana and Sean with a few of the blind squirrel stories while they were out on the trail, to Jed's great enjoyment.

"So what was it?" Victoria prompted Malila.

"He was lost." Malila's expression became mournful as she remembered Me'weh just standing there in the dark. "He was lost, and he was so sad, and he looked so scared. He was holding a beaded medicine bag in his hand I saw him pick up from the ground. I thought – the first thing I thought was that he was blind again. Husu tells us a story where a shaman does a spell and Pele Me'weh gets to see, and he's so so happy, but then he finds out the shaman stole the sight from another creature. Me'weh makes the shaman give the sight back to the other creature even though it meant Me'weh had to be blind again. I thought maybe that's what happened. He looked just like that." Malila was tearful but pushed on with her telling, because even in that story Me'weh didn't just sit and cry.

"I asked him if he could see and he said 'I don't know'. Then he said 'I can't see her. I can't find her. I couldn't keep her safe – I can't keep her safe –' He looked at _**us**_ , though," she said, "and he could _**see**_ us, and that helped a little." The children nodded again in confirmation. "We knew he was afraid for his Rivka because the Ghost Dancers had taken her, and they were so crazy and scared and angry. So we had to remind him."

"Remind him of what?" asked Haja.

"We had to remind him that there's lots of times Me'weh gets lost and doesn't know what to do – he's little and he's blind and it seems like he's almost never safe, but he figures it out. _He always tries, and when he listens to his spirit inside, he finds which way to go_. That's what Husu always says. That's how Me'weh saved Husu's life and dragged him over to where the door was even though he was blind and they couldn't breathe and the roundhouse was burning and falling down." Her story was tumbling out fast now and she stopped to take a breath. "We told Me'weh that they needed him. That Rivka and the woman spirit needed him, and the Ghost Dancers needed him – and Teleli. I think Teleli needs Me'weh the most. We showed Me'weh where they came up out of the ground. He went out after them."

"Came up out of the ground?" Victoria looked at Frank, who swore, then apologized.

"We dug a backdoor escape tunnel the first night we took the fence line." He growled in frustration. "Ghosts, huh. The whole lot of 'em ghosted right past us, in and out."

"Kono did make Me'weh take a coat, because Kono smelled the snow coming," Malila informed Haja, who was still looking disapprovingly at the children. "Kono brought Me'weh a coat, and he took it, but…I don't know if Me'weh was seeing us anymore by then." She looked worriedly up toward the mountains. "He was blind again. I know Me'weh will find which way to go. But it's going to be hard, I think."


	57. Chapter 56 - Snowfall

_O quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought,  
Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night  
With obscure finger silences your sight,  
Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought,  
Sleep, and have sleep for light._

 _And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep  
Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep;  
And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each,  
Seeing as men sow men reap._

 _A.C. Swinburne, "Ave atque Vale"_

* * *

 ** _Barkley Camp, Outside Sonora, Dawn, December 3, 1874_**

"He went **_where_**? On **_foot_**?" Nick was up and pacing beside the campfire, simultaneously pulling on his winter coat and gesturing furiously toward the mountains looming to the east. The granite peaks and lower slopes were rapidly disappearing behind a gray wall of cloud and swirling snow. "Do you see what's happening up there, what that mule-stubborn boy is going to run into? He's got three hours start already. Even if I knew exactly where he was going, I wouldn't be able to catch him before that storm does." He wrapped a muffler around his neck and began rolling up supplies inside some extra blankets and rain gear. "What was he **_thinking_**? Why the hell didn't he take his horse and a gun? He runs into trouble, at least I'd know Charger could get him back to camp."

"That's the problem, Nick. I don't know what he was thinking – or **_if_** he was thinking. When those two thugs took Heath out of the tent, he was already gone." John held Nick's worried gaze to make sure he had been understood. "On the other hand, the two lieutenants who broke up the beating told me Heath was down when they got there, but that he was putting up a hell of a fight. And from what the Miwok kids said, it sounds like he was in and out. I don't pretend to know what that all means. I'm just hoping he's got some basic self-preservation instincts that'll keep him in one piece until you find him."

"Until **_we_** find him," Audra corrected him. She approached the group at the campfire leading Nox and Charger, both tacked up and outfitted for the trail. "Once we get into snow, Nick, you may or may not be able to track him. Nox found me. She can find Heath – and I'm certain she can find Ilsa – which means she can bring us to Rivka, too."

"I don't like the idea of just the two of you riding into that weather – and after a group of potentially hostile Indians. Now, Audra –" Victoria held up a hand to forestall her daughter's protest. "Much as it frightens me, I agree you should go with Nick. But there's safety in numbers – I'd feel better if you had more than one brother with you."

Audra considered that. "John and Jarrod have to stay here to finish up this awful business with Morgan. I don't think sending any marshals along with us is a good idea if we want any chance of gaining Teleli's trust and getting Rivka and Ilsa back. Husu, maybe – but he's back with Hekeke and I don't think he wants to leave her and the children alone. Besides," she said definitively, "I'll have **_two_** brothers with me once we find Heath."

Victoria weighed her daughter's words. On the one hand, she saw Audra's unshakeable faith in her brother's emotional compass and ability to recover himself from unfathomable places; on the other hand, she had taken in John's very realistic worry about Heath's mental and physical health. John had shared with her what Heath had said to him in the tent; more important, he had vividly conveyed to her the desperation with which her son – **_their_** son - was fighting to hold himself together, and John's impression that it was a battle in which Heath was rapidly losing ground.

Audra was right, though, she had to admit: sending deputy marshals along could badly complicate things with Teleli and his few men. And Victoria had great faith in both Nick and Audra; in their ability to take care of each other; and in their ability to reach their brother Heath, wherever he might be. She nodded her assent and looked to John, who indicated he'd arrived at the same conclusion.

A few minutes later, Nick and Audra rode off into the gray Sierra dawn. The rising sun and the snowfields above and ahead of them, already hazy and indistinct, were soon obscured by clouds. John and Victoria watched until they were out of sight, then turned to walk back to the campfire, where Peter, Moshe and the Miwok family had gathered, each sending up their own prayers for the safe return of friends and loved ones.

John put his arm around Victoria and then stopped walking so he could turn and face her. "You need some rest."

"So do you, Marshal. Being the matriarch of this family, I have a very spacious and nicely equipped tent in which I would love to have the pleasure of your company."

He laughed softly and lightly stroked her back with his fingers in a way that always gave her very pleasant goosebumps all over. "I'd be honored, ma'am." He grew serious. "This isn't how I expect you thought you'd spend the holiday season, much less your honeymoon. I'm so sorry, Vee."

"No, it's not what I expected, but this expedition of yours did get me out of having to plan the big church Christmas party. After last year, what with all the bickering people did about the food and the seating and the music, I never wanted to take on that job again – but I wasn't sure I'd have the fortitude to say no. So I'm grateful, in a way." Her offhand tone threw him for a moment until he saw the humorous twinkle in her eyes.

"And here I thought you were going to tell me you're just happy being at my side," he mused, smiling.

She laughed up at him. "I am happy at your side. Would I be happier at your side if all of us were safe at home, with no important battles to fight? Probably. With you, John, is where I _want_ to be. Here, in this battle, is where you – and I – _need_ to be. Being where I am needed, doing what is needed: that makes me happy. So I think I can confidently say that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, Dawn, December 3, 1874_**

A sudden gust of wind filled the air with a blinding cloud of flying ice crystals. The storm then began in earnest, snow falling thick and fast as far as the eye could see, and blowing in all directions. Heath stumbled to a stop, reflexively wiping ice from his stinging eyes and trying to make some sense of the scene around him. He had a brief but intense surge of panic that he was going blind; he blinked and wiped his eyes again, turning in a slow, unsteady circle. The illusion passed and the swirling, gray and white world around him gradually resolved itself into a blur of ice and snow and rock and tree.

 _As far as the eye can see – which isn't very far at all. What am I – where – **think** , dammit – _

Heath shivered and turned around once again, searching for a landmark, a trailmarker, **_anything_** to give him a clue where he was. All he could say for sure was he was wet, cold, and lost in a mountain snowstorm.

He was in a very bad situation. This fact came clear to him immediately. On the heels of that understanding – more gradual, but quickly growing large and painful, like a fist squeezing the life out him – came the memory of what had driven him up into these hills, and what trail he had been following. That trail had vanished. He fell to his knees, his face tipped back, staring up at the dizzying swirl of white and gray. The fist clenched inside him and he screamed wordlessly at the falling sky.


	58. Chapter 57 - No More Time

_And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice._

 _Kings 19:12_

* * *

Teleli growled impatiently as he waited for two of his companions to climb back up to his position in a sheltered stand of pine, where the trees and granite ribs of the mountain provided some relief from the rising snowstorm and gusting wind. He sat his horse with only a cinched blanket, no saddle. Rivka rode behind him, her arms around his waist and loosely bound at the wrists. A satchel containing some hastily gathered medical supplies was slung over her shoulder. She, too, anxiously watched the green-and-gray painted Miwok men as they scrambled quickly and silently over the rocks, at times nearly invisible in the gray-green landscape and the blowing snow.

The men arrived, only slightly breathless. They gave Teleli their report in Miwok, gesturing behind them, downhill. Rivka heard them, several times, say "Me'weh", mostly in tones of worry and frustration, but she was certain she heard also a grudging surprise and respect. Teleli muttered an expletive to himself, frowning, and gestured for the two men to rejoin the third Miwok man who was holding their horses.

"What is he **_doing_** , that fool? And how did he track us this far on foot? He's going to die out there! Me'weh –- What were you **_thinking_** running out after us? Are you **_crazy_**?" Teleli stared off into the trees, frustrated, then shook his head angrily. " ** _No_**. We have to keep going and get back to our camp. It's been too long already. I have to get you to Osa. There's no more time."

Rivka thought she might burst into tears of relief at hearing it was Heath coming after them, and that he was so close by. Right on the heels of that relief came the fear that Heath had chased after her up into a storm in which their trail would be lost, and that Teleli might choose to let Heath die out there rather than bring him to their shelter.

She leaned forward to speak quietly to Teleli. She had been talking with him from the moment they took her out of the camp, drawing him out and doing her best to understand his thinking. She had described some of the events that had brought Heath, Audra, John and her into these hills in the first place, and how they had become involved in the confrontation at the internment camp.

In the process, as she pieced together Teleli's story and began to perceive the rough outline of his path in life, she saw a man very much like Heath: brave, self-sufficient, inherently compassionate and bluntly realistic; a lightning rod for trouble in a world of vicious, violent bigotry; a devoted man yearning for reunion with his family. They were exiles, both of them, aching for a safe harbor even as they were hounded into constant flight by the demons of memory. Both had lived lives banished by prejudicial laws and attitudes, but for Teleli there was no end, no possible homeland in sight. Rivka found him frightening, if she were honest with herself; not because he was threatening or violent, but because of the specter of despair that hung over him. His belief in any kind of benign future - or any hope of return to his family – more often than not drifted far out of his sight, while the past continued to rampage through his mind at will, battering his hold on the present. Her heart ached for him - and she feared for what might become of Heath.

Teleli wasn't all gone, though, and so she spoke to the compassionate, steady man she could sense in him.

"Teleli, please, don't leave Heath out there. He is no threat to you, or to Ilsa. You **_know_** this."

He shook his head, tight-lipped, and gestured to his companions to mount up.

"Teleli, Heath and I came here to **_help_** Ilsa," she argued more forcefully, "to bring her back together with the family she lost, and to bring her and her baby to safety. I will not fight you or try to escape, and I will do everything I can to deliver this baby and keep them both healthy and well.

"Heath came tracking after us because you took me, and he fears for my safety, that is true. But he fears also for Ilsa's safety, and the baby's. Teleli – he fears for **_you_**. He knows it is you up here in the hills, hunted by those soldiers. He wants to help. We both want to help."

He didn't answer. She leaned in closer then, and spoke for his ears alone. "But, Teleli, if you leave Heath out there to die, you will be forcing me to choose. That man you call Me'weh is my love, my friend, my intended husband, and, God willing, the father of my children. My family and I owe him our lives. If you leave him out there, Teleli, I will fight you with everything I have."

She paused, watching his face, wanting to be certain he was listening. " ** _I will not leave him_**. Do you understand me, Teleli? It is up to you how this will go."

* * *

The spinning, falling snow rapidly laid a blanket of white over the mountainside. The low gray clouds moved swiftly, obscuring the tops of the trees and trailing fingers of icy fog along the ground. Heath screamed at the sky. The snow and fog and mountainside swallowed the sound, unperturbed, and wrapped him in muffled, timeless silence.

The silence felt like a mother's rebuke. He bowed his head, kneeling there in the snow, feeling utterly alone, and utterly defeated.

"I give up," he whispered, then a little stronger, "I give up. I give up, OK? What am I supposed to do -?"

He had no idea to whom he was talking, or what he expected to hear, but in any case, there was no response.

Heath's memory of the confrontation with Morgan and his men was fragmented and unstable. His left arm was throbbing and he couldn't bend it more than slightly. A gleaming brass horsehead had reared up over him, the mane moving in the lamplight. And John was there, _seeing_ him, his eyes holding him.

 _He called me his son._

But the horsehead slashed down, and the pain was too great. Heath couldn't hold on. He tried to just _go away_ , certain the brass horse meant to descend on him again, and again, and again until it finished him. He found no escape, though. The pain dug in its claws. The pain became Ryan and Hooper and they pulled him back into himself, pulled him away from John, pulled him out of the tent and dragged him into the dark. Laughing, they pushed him down into a ditch and followed after, hungry and happy as dogs with a bone to gnaw on.

 _"That goddamned marshal ain't comin' after his mutt, no way. Rifles'll take Smith out in a second if he even sets foot outside that tent. So we can take our time, ain't that right, Thomson?"_

They had an appetite, those two: they carried themselves like officers, but their hands and eyes were greedy.

 _"You might do better to learn how to stay down, boy. Might make your life a whole lot easier."_

He fought them, hopelessly. They put him down, and he kept trying to get back up. He wished he could stop. Wished it could all just come to a speedy end. He would lose her. He couldn't protect her. He wasn't strong enough, and he would fail.

His hands were resting in his lap now, growing numb from the cold. They were bruised and bloody, and in one hand he gripped the beaded Apache medicine bag he had given Rivka for her 17th birthday. He had found it dropped near the tunnel that ran under the fence – _when? Just now? Yesterday? A month ago?_

The gut-wrenching fear of _not-knowing-when_ was quickly drowned out by the gut-wrenching realization that he had lost Rivka.

Heath had no clear idea still of his _where_ or _when_ , but he had tracked after Teleli and Rivka on instinct, and of one thing he was certain: he had followed them into the mountains, into a snowstorm, and he had continued on well past the point of no return. Even if he turned back now, even if he knew the way, he wouldn't make it on foot.

He had bet everything, it seemed, on his belief in Teleli's compassion, and on his own ability to reach the small Miwok band before the storm and the mountain wiped him away.

Kneeling in the falling, white silence, Heath considered the evident fact that this time, he had gambled and lost.

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, May, 1859_**

Hannah paused in her foraging to arm the sweat from her brow and adjust the long patchwork scarf she had artfully wrapped around her head like a colorful turban. Setting down her basket, she pulled a small knife from her skirt pocket and crouched to collect a handful of fiddlehead ferns just starting to sprout. In the moments of silence between the bursts of evening birdsong, the deep springtime voice of the Stanislaus River would become audible, a song rumbling low and steady among the trees.

She dropped the tightly curled ferns in her basket. Straightening up, she was slipping the knife back into her pocket when she gasped as if in pain. Her hand suddenly clenched around the warm wooden handle of the knife. She felt as though she had been struck by lightning; a shock had seized her and just as quickly let her go, leaving her with a dry mouth and a pounding, terrified heart.

Turning toward home before a single conscious thought had formed, Hannah starting running back to the cabin. She broke from the tree line and was angling for the back porch before the first screams reached her ears.


	59. Chapter 58 - Foul Crimes

_The poor committeth unto thee; thou art the helper of the fatherless._

 _Break thou the arm of the wicked and the evil man: seek out his wickedness till thou find none._

 _Psalm 10_

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, Dusk, May 1859_**

 _Turning toward home before a single conscious thought had formed, Hannah starting running back to the cabin. She broke from the tree line and was angling for the back porch before the first screams reached her ears._

The force that drove her into this battle was wordless, soundless, and powerful; it was a tidal wave of silence that swept her up and carried her home. _Home. Leah. Heath._ The deepening dusk took on a crystal clarity that was almost painful to her eyes. _Home. Leah. Heath._ She heard Leah scream to her son, heard the splintering of wood and cries of pain. A moment later she had reached the back porch of the cabin and instinctively dropped down low, picturing already the cabinet where the women stored the old shotgun. The weapon was old, but serviceable, and these days Rachael kept it cleaned, oiled, and loaded at all times.

"Mama – Mama, no –" The boy's voice was weak and muffled. She heard Leah scream in anger, her cry abruptly cut off with the sound of fists striking her face.

 _Oh, God, Heath – Leah -_ Hannah stole a look into the main room. Three men – _those same three animals, come back like a plague, like a plague of vicious vermin – God, help me, please, please -_

A man was down, lying across the threshold of the front door. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth and turning blue; one hand groped weakly toward the haft of a knife protruding from the base of his throat. One man had pinned Heath face down on the cot; as she watched, he punched him several times, then shoved the boy's face down into the bedding, holding him there with one hand and the weight of his body as he laughed and endeavored drunkenly to unbuckle his own pants. Heath's frantic struggles for breath weakened rapidly, so rapidly that even in the few seconds Hannah had spared to look, she saw Heath reach his hand out into nothing, one last time - and then sag and go limp.

The third man had beaten Leah nearly senseless – her face was bruised and her eyes were puffed shut, and though she was still conscious, she too had lost any ability to resist. He rose up on his knees over her, wanting to crow his triumph before he took what he had come for. She had given him a black eye and a split and bleeding lip, and he intended now to get payback for his trouble.

He wouldn't get the chance. He raised his hands over his head in celebration, and Hannah fired one load of the double-barreled shotgun right into the center of his chest at close range. He flew backwards and was dead before he hit the floor.

Hannah brought the weapon around to aim at the man crouched over her motionless, lifeless boy, and with no hesitation, she pulled the other trigger.

Nothing happened.

He lurched toward her, his bloodshot eyes overflowing with murderous rage and alcohol. He swung at her like a bear, clumsy but powerful, knocking the jammed shotgun from her hands and clipping the side of her head hard enough to knock her off her feet. She scrambled sluggishly back toward the cooking area, frantically trying to think of something else she could use as a weapon.

 _I have to get to Heath, to Leah – Lord, help me, please, help me get to them – my boy isn't breathing –_

She made it to her feet; she dodged another lunge and managed to get the kitchen table between her and the drunken attacker. Then he fumbled his rusty sidearm out of its holster, and Hannah thought it was all over. Still, she backed away, unaware of the tears flowing down her face, praying to God and instinctively putting herself between the people she loved and the animal who had invaded their home. He raised the gun, cursing her with breathless, slurred vulgarity, and fired.

* * *

 _I am thy father's spirit,  
_ _Doomed for a certain term to walk the night  
_ _And for the day confined to fast in fires,  
_ _Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature  
_ _Are burnt and purged away._

 _William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"_

* * *

Tom Barkley had changed his mind.

 _It was a foolish idea, coming back here, just foolish. Maybe he's not even my son – Leah is just as blond as me. She's a beautiful, loving woman. She surely found another man. The boy probably isn't mine, and now at least I know he's made it home safe. Why stir up old mistakes and trouble -? The complications this could create – Victoria and I finally put that whole terrible time behind us. Things are **good** between us. Things are normal. I count on her for everything, and I won't cause her any more pain than I already have. There is so much we are building together. I can't sacrifice that for this – this – hurtful speculation. That would be cruel. Pointless. I was foolish to come back here - _

He had hiked all the way back to where he had hidden his horse, when he spotted the three men scuttling toward the cabin. Alarmed, he turned back, breaking into a run when he heard the screams and crashing. He emerged from the darkened woods and sprinted toward the cabin. The dim light of a single indoor lamp spilled onto the front porch through the windows and open door.

He took in the signs of struggle at the entry and saw a man dying with a paring knife buried in his throat. _The boy did that, I think. Good for him,_ he thought as he raced across the open ground. One heartbeat later, and still a hundred feet away, Tom dove for cover as windows shattered and gunfire erupted from inside the house.

* * *

The pistol shot split the close air of the cabin and shattered a window. Backing away, Hannah's foot had struck an obstacle on the floor, and she stumbled and fell. Down on the ground, Hannah remained frozen for just a second or two. She had **_felt_** the killing bullet tear past her as she fell; as if in greeting, the wind of its lethal passage brushed gentle fingers along her cheek, and her whole body now tensed in anticipation of imminent death.

The drunken man paused, swaying, seeming to think his bullet had hit his mark and taken her to the floor. He squinted down at her.

 ** _Leah. Heath_** _._ The names shouted in her mind and dispelled her shocked paralysis. Her hand closed around the shotgun that had tripped her to the floor. Seeing her motion, the man raised his gun to fire again. Hannah braced the stock of the shotgun against the floor, aimed the barrel at his face, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

 _I dreamt my lady came and found me dead—  
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think—  
And breathed such life with kisses in my lips  
That I revived and was an emperor._

 _William Shakespeare, "Romeo and Juliet"_

* * *

Silence descended after the roar of the shotgun; it enveloped the home and passed on like the noiseless tidal wave that had borne Hannah back to defend her family. Hannah rose without a further thought for the dead men in her house. She heard Leah now moaning, moving, calling for Heath and trying to rise. She saw Heath motionless, breathless, and limp. His child's fingers were dusky blue and curled against the floorboards under his cot. Hannah flew to him, calling to Leah as she gently rolled him over.

He was pale, so pale. A deathly cyanosis encircled his eyes and mouth. He was gone – Hannah could feel it. He was gone.

Leah stumbled to Hannah's side. She was barely able to see past the swelling of her blackened eyes, her face so bruised she was almost unrecognizable. "Oh, God, Hannah, is he dead? Is he _dead_? God, no, my baby – **_no_** –"

Hannah ran her hands over Heath's body, a wailing refusal rising up inside her and filling her mind and heart and soul. _No, no, no, you can't have him. They took my Asa, I can't lose this boy, Lord, you can't have him, not yet. No. No. No. What can I do? What can I do?_

Leah leaned over him, calling his name. "Heath. **_Heath_** , baby, breathe -! Breathe, please –" Cradling his pale face in her hands, she suddenly remembered the midwives she had seen from time to time, back when Strawberry was booming. She had watched them especially closely when she was pregnant, as she knew she herself would not have anyone besides Rachael to help her when her time came to deliver. Sometimes even healthy babies didn't breathe right away. They would be just as limp and purple as her boy was right now, and the midwives would breathe for them until they pinked up and could breathe on their own.

Leah brought her mouth to his. She gave him breath after breath. She watched his chest rise and fall, and heard Hannah begin sobbing in relief as the blue-gray color of death faded from his face. Her hands rested lightly on his small, wiry body, and she felt the gallop of his heart come pounding back under her fingers.

He gasped, coughed, and took a few ragged breaths in. His eyes opened and fell on the brutalized face of his mother; reaching up, he touched her cheek lightly, then closed his eyes again. A few tears slid down his face. He lay silent, and didn't rouse again for several days.

* * *

 _Plate sin with gold,  
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks._

 _William Shakespeare, "King Lear"_

* * *

 _There is no saint without a past, no sinner without a future._

 _St. Augustine_

* * *

When Tom emerged from his cover, mere seconds later, the shooting was over. He could see, even from where he stood at a distance, that Leah was injured but alive. He saw the Negro woman hurry to the boy and roll him over. The boy was dead, that was obvious. _God, what a terrible thing,_ he thought, _to have made it home from the catastrophe in Sutamasina – only to be murdered by a drunken drifter._ Tom stood in the dark, rooted in place for a moment by the sight of the boy: still and pale, the blond hair overgrown and shaggy, his slim child's body limp. The two women wept over him. Tom backed away, moving to the cover of the woods, unable to sort out the jumble of emotions that were shaking through him.

As he often did when confronted with painful or uncomfortable feelings, Tom boxed them up, set them aside, and focused on useful actions he could take, right now, to help the situation. Deep in such thoughts, Tom first went and retrieved his horse, then located and collected the horses of the three men who had attacked the house. The Negro woman had shot and killed two of the men, and it appeared the boy had killed the third. It was becoming clear to Tom that this outcast family was in a very bad position.

First of all, there were the bodies of three full-grown men to be disposed of. These women could not make use of the law, or any kind of assistance from town. Tom realized immediately that no matter what these men had been doing to get themselves killed, they had been killed by a Negro and a bastard child. The Negro woman would certainly hang. If the bastard child had lived, he would have been convicted as well, and blind or not, he would've been locked up for the rest of his short life.

He hadn't arrived in time to save the boy or protect Leah, but he could at least take this burden away from them. He would collect the three dead men. He would come up with a plausible story. Tom Barkley would be listened to and believed in both the saloon and the sheriff's office in Strawberry, and he would make sure no shadow of suspicion fell upon Leah's house.

Returning to the cabin, he tethered the horses at the tree line and walked, unarmed, toward the cabin. He saw that the Negro woman, petite as she was, had managed to drag the three men outside. The bodies lay side by side on the ground, covered by an old blanket. The inside of the cabin was quiet and only faintly lit. He stopped a distance away and waited. She saw him immediately, and approached him with the shotgun in her hands. She asked him his business.

He told her had been passing by and had followed the men, had seen what they did, but didn't get there in time to stop them. He apologized, and to Hannah he seemed sincere.

When he explained to her what he proposed to do with the men, and why, she grew thoughtful. She had already arrived at the same conclusion regarding her fate, should these deaths come to the attention of the law. Her plan had been to bury the men out in the woods, turn their horses loose, and hope for the best. Unfortunately, it seemed very likely the three had bragged all around town about where they were going tonight. Hannah shared these thoughts with the stranger. She could not see his face, shrouded as it was in darkness, but she heard enough honesty in his voice, finally, to accept his help. She nodded her assent. No more words passed between them, and Tom watched her walk sadly back to the house and disappear inside.


	60. Chapter 59 - Mother of Grief

_Lo! darkness bends down like a mother of grief  
On the limitless plain, and the fall of her hair  
It has mantled a world._

 _Joaquin Miller, "From Sea to Sea"_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

 _" **Heath** -! Heath, **run** -!"_

His head came up, his heart pounding in his throat. _Mama – that's Mama's voice_ – _but it can't – it isn't, I'm just hearing things -_ He stared out into the falling snow, suddenly terrified. He was still struggling to figure out his present _where_ and _when;_ now, already, that slipping, falling sensation was surging back in, the undertow pulling him out and away.

 _I'm gonna die up here. I can't think. I'm losing my mind, God help me, I'm –_

 _"Run, Heath – baby, please **, run** –" _

The agony he could hear in his mother's plea just about ripped his heart out. He rocked forward, gasping at the blood red pain that blossomed in his chest as the echo of her voice faded. _What **is** this? When – _

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the memory. _I can't do this, Mama, I'm dying –_

He was trying to hold on to where he was, but he was caught in a deep river current now with no anchor. He saw his mother's face. The image was blurred and shadowed, but it was enough to show him her blue eyes, blackened and swollen, and the tears that ran down her bruised, lacerated cheeks. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but the sight of her crushed him under a mountain of guilt and grief and failure, and then he wanted to die.

 _"Goddamned backwoods punk –"_

In his mind, more images and physical memories began to intrude, erratic and unbidden, mixing with fragments of murmured conversation.

 _"Rachael, just leave him alone for now. It's better that he doesn't remember. I don't want him to know what he did – I don't want him to know what happened. It could destroy him. Don't you argue with me, Rachael. I just won't take the chance. And for Hannah's sake, I don't want any of us to speak about it. Not anymore. We have to protect her. One little slip of the tongue around the wrong people and we could lose her forever, and they'll take Heath away and lock him up."_

 _"Leah, honey, I understand, and truly I don't disagree. But Heath hasn't spoken – at all – for **weeks**. He's not sick; it **seems** like his eyesight's almost back to normal; I took off the splint yesterday, and the leg seems to be doing just fine. You'd think he'd take off like a wild mustang, wouldn't you? Well, **wouldn't** you?" Rachael's voice was worried and demanding. "We haven't said a word to him about what happened, and neither has he said a word to us – but is that why he hasn't come back? I don't know where he is in his mind, he just sits and stares at the woods like he's listening for something. He has nightmares, we all know that, but even then, Leah, he doesn't speak. Maybe we **should** try to talk to him about it –"_

 _" **No**. I don't want him to know. They'll lock him up like a criminal or a mad dog. I said no, and that's final. " _

_"All right, all right, Leah, child, don't you cry," Hannah soothed. "Don't you worry. He's not lost. Heath will find his way back to us. I'll sing with him, and set him to help me in the garden, and maybe next week I'll bring him down to the livery. Those horses will find a smile in him somewhere, they always do, and maybe old Seth can put him to work."_

 _They'll lock him up like a criminal or a mad dog._ The words rose and fell in his mind like a gavel. _I don't want him to know what he did. It could destroy him._ Her words sounded like truth; they rang with the finality of nails in a coffin. It was almost a relief.

 _Mama, I'm sorry I brought you so much hurt. You should've gotten rid of me, but you didn't. You loved me. I know you did, Mama, and I loved you with all my heart. I would've done anything to keep that hurt away from you, but instead I brought you disaster._

 _My father didn't want me. That's a fact. He wished I hadn't been born; seems he was able to convince himself I didn't exist and just move on. No surprise there, really. Can't honestly blame him. He had a family and a marriage to protect, and a fortune to build. The only surprise for me, I guess, is finding out that it still hurts like hell to know it for a truth._

 _But John called me his son._ That memory came back to him with sudden clarity. _I remember that,_ he thought, wondering. _He called me his son._

 _Even with everything that's happened, John and Victoria, and Rivka, and Hannah, this whole family, they love me - or someone I used to be. I thought I could find my way back. I wanted to make it back. They won't give up on me, I know this, even when really they should. And no matter how much I love them, I will bring them disaster._

As if he had been abruptly dropped back into his own body, Heath was suddenly, acutely aware of how cold he was. Sharp as ice crystals, he could feel the throbbing pain in his arm; the snow melting like tiny needles on his skin; the damp of the ground soaking through his clothes. He opened his eyes and stared out into the pine woods filling with snow. Here and there, breaks in the moving clouds would allow faint, ephemeral beams sunlight to slant down through the trees, creating illuminated columns of sparkling snow that would vanish as quickly as they had appeared.

 _Cursed._

 _Dark, light, dark, light_ … _It looks like a pattern, but it really isn't._ This unbidden thought repeated, louder this time. It was nagging, familiar, but he couldn't remember why.

A silvered thread of time flickered into a steady inner glow, welcome as a lighthouse to a sailor lost in fog. Heath traced it back over shadowed topography; he remembered children running to him at the barn, their expressions serious and full of expectation. _"Me"weh, there's lots of times you get lost and you don't know what to do. Husu says 'Me'weh always tries, and when he listens to his spirit inside, he finds which way to go'. Rivka and the weeping woman need you, and Teleli especially needs you. Yayali is coming, and they need you, so you have to listen."_

 _Yayali is coming._ And so now he listened. He listened, and beyond the soft hiss of the snowfall and the wind in the pines, he could hear the river. He rose, put Rivka's medicine bag around his neck, and tucked it inside his coat, which he buttoned up over his bloody shirt with numb, cold fingers.

 _Cursed, maybe. Mad dog for sure and certain. Gonna have to run me off eventually. But this dog can still hunt._

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

"I have given you my word, Doctor. We're very close now. I will bring you to Osa. My men will bring Me'weh safely to our shelter, I promise you. Please – Osa has been alone for hours. I fear for her."

Rivka hesitated, looking hard at the three Miwok men who were preparing to ride back down to find Heath. She had heard them angrily make reference to the U.S. Marshal insignia he wore, as they urged Teleli to move on and leave Heath behind. Certainly she shared Teleli's worry for the woman – from what she understood, Ilsa had been laboring for a full 24 hours now. He had left her in a warm shelter with plenty to drink and some simple foods, but there was no time to waste. Rivka spoke to the three men. "I will go to Ilsa. You have promised Teleli you will not harm Me'weh. Now you look me in the eye, and you promise **_me_**."

One by one, reluctantly, they nodded and gave her their word. She watched them disappear into the snowy woods as Teleli turned his horse uphill.

They were close. Less than half an hour later, they rode into a clearing bounded by dense stands of pine and oak. The wind had died down, and the snow fell straight down, silent and steady. She could hear the hollow rumble of a river, nearby but unseen beyond the trees.

"We're here."

"We're where?" Rivka asked, as Teleli untied her wrists. She dismounted at his direction, but still saw no hint that they had arrived anyplace inhabited. Teleli, she saw, was hurrying to pull the tack from the horse. He left the animal to fend for itself, and jerked his head for Rivka to follow him.

He led her toward a group of pines at the edge of the clearing, calling softly, "Osa? Osa, it is Teleli. I've brought a doctor. Osa?"

Rivka considered the possibility that Teleli and his companions might be more insane than she realized. _What if this "weeping woman" is only a delusion? What then? What will Teleli do with me? And what about Heath? Did I just agree to send three delusional mountain men back to rescue him?_ She was on the verge of running to retrieve the horse and go after Heath herself, when Teleli lifted a drooping pine branch heavy with snow.

"In here."

Peering into the shadows, Rivka could make out the outline of a wooden door in a curving, low wall of earth and bark. Teleli opened the door, and she could see a low fire inside, and piles of deer hide blankets, and a woman rocking and moaning as she labored through a contraction. She seemed to Rivka to move like a flame in the dim firelight. Her long limbs, her twist of wild blond hair, the arc of her neck: her whole being, in fact, seemed to curve and flow protectively around her pregnant belly and the baby she carried.

The contraction passed. She was drenched in sweat, and it ran down her face as she threw her head back and caught her breath. "Teleli." Her voice was fluid and hoarse, but still strong. "Teleli, I'm so glad you are back safely. Will you make me more tea? I drank the last of it at least two hours ago, I'm so thirsty –"

"Yes, Osa, yes, I'll make more right now." He retrieved her cup and a flask, watching her with a mix of worry and reverence that Rivka found strangely moving. "Osa, this is the doctor. Her name is Rivka."

"Ilsa," Rivka said gently. The young woman opened her eyes in surprise at hearing her name, and studied Rivka more closely. Rivka continued, "I know your name because I came up to these mountains with my companions – my family - looking for you."

"Looking for me?"

"Yes. Ilsa, Peter is alive. We came to the mountains in search of both of you. He was badly injured, he was very sick, but he is recovering. And Nox is with us as well. They are both waiting for you, Ilsa, not far away. Your family is waiting for you. I'm here to help you deliver this child, and then we can go to them."


	61. Chapter 60 - Deeds Will Rise

_If it assume my noble father's person,  
I'll speak to it, though Hell itself should gape  
And bid me hold my peace._

 _Would the night were come!  
Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,  
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes._

 _William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

Nick nudged Coco into a trot to come up alongside Audra and Nox. Charger, on a lead line behind Coco, easily kept pace. The colt tossed his head and expressed his displeasure at being relegated to the unfamiliar and insulting position of last place in the line of horses, just as he had been doing since they set out. Nick had scolded him a few times – now he just ignored the complaining. They'd been climbing for a few hours now, and they were just now getting into the thick of the snowstorm.

"You doing OK, Audra?"

Audra had knotted her reins to free up her hands so she could wrap her scarf more securely around her face against the blowing snow. She wasn't telling the horse which way to go anyway – Nox carried her forward regardless, taking in the smells of the mountain and leading them, they hoped, to their brother.

"I'm fine," she answered, her voice muffled behind snow-covered wool. "I hope we find him soon – do you think we're anywhere close?"

"Could be. Hard to say for sure when we can't see the terrain around us, but we do seem to be on a path toward Sutamasina. Or where Sutamasina used to be, anyway," he added grimly. He had reviewed a few maps and consulted with Marshal Montana in Sonora, briefly, on their way up into the mountains. **_If_** Heath had successfully followed Teleli, and **_if_** Teleli's hideout was in the vicinity of Sutamasina, and **_if_** Nick's estimate was correct about Nox' course so far – it was a lot of _ifs,_ but they could be very close.

Audra glanced over at him, then looked down and pretended to adjust her sleeves. "Nick?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you been thinking about Father?"

His expression darkened immediately. "Not really, no."

"Me neither." She paused, then said, "I told myself I could get as mad at him as I needed to – later. It just seemed – I don't know – _selfish_ somehow to get caught up in that right now, when there's so much else going on. I just wish I could've seen Heath. Nick, I'm so worried about him."

"Me too, honey, me too. It was bad enough seeing the look on Heath's face, down in the camp. I wanted to go after him, let him talk it out, or something, but we had to leave. But then to have that rat of a colonel _gut_ him again like that – oh, what I'd like to do to Morgan, you don't even want to know," he hissed, his hand tightening on his reins. "And there's plenty I'd like to say to Father. Oh, yes. **_Plenty_**. But that is gonna have to wait. Like you said."

She nodded, glad to know she at least wasn't alone in how she was feeling. "What did the marshal tell you in Sonora?"

"Still no line on Morgan, though a few of the officers who left with him seemed to have changed their minds and drifted back into the fold. Not that that'll protect them all from court martial in the long run. Jim Roberts is expected to arrive to Sonora by tomorrow. You're gonna love this – he arrested Sheriff Martin Peale on a laundry list of charges approved by the judge in Stockton. Peale and Marco are going to be roommates in Montana's lockup until he can ship them out for trial." He grinned at Audra's pleased and rather savage smile at that bit of good news. "Word is that Roberts dug up enough on Peale to hang him several times over; Peale is offering information that will take down Morgan and Congressman Mills, and even the president of Stockton Bank, in hopes of at least avoiding a death penalty for himself."

Audra gasped. "Stockton Bank? You mean Mr. Minter? That holier-than-thou bookkeeper who was so nasty to Heath last month?"

"He was? What are you talking about?"

"I'm friends with the sister of Minter's secretary. Heath showed up to take care of some bank business - transfer of funds, that sort of thing – and Minter made a big show of his shock and righteous disapproval. Made sure everyone in the building could hear how _insulting_ it was – to him being such an admirer and dear friend of the great Tom Barkley - to have to do business with a b- … well, **_you_** know, and Heath just out of jail besides. Minter shoved the papers at Heath and had his security guards practically throw him out on the sidewalk!"

"That slimy little…How come I never heard about this?"

"You were in Lodi for a few days, and Heath never brought it up. That Minter – I never liked him. It was awful when he thought he could court Mother, I'm so glad she shut him down quickly. But now he's involved in this whole business with Peale and Morgan? That _awful_ man. I hope he goes to jail forever."

"He will, along with the rest of them, if Jarrod and John have anything to say about it. John's got his plate so full of high-level incriminating evidence he's notified the US Attorney General, and is calling in assistants to help the local prosecutors get a handle on it all. Jarrod is going to be busy preparing whatever it is he needs to do to transfer permanent legal control of the land he bought to Haja and her people, and void all the indentures, as soon as it seems safe to do so. And then ** _-_** there's the problem of Teleli."

"What about Teleli?"

"He's a wanted man. He's been locked up before, so he's known – his face, his family connections – though they've never been able to catch up to him since he ran two years ago. The men with him aren't identifiable, from what Montana said – they could probably disappear back into the village now that they have a place to call home. Not Teleli, though."

"So after all this, Montana's going to keep hunting him? He can't go home to his family? That's terrible – that's so unfair –"

"No argument from me, honey. He's still a fugitive, unfortunately – unless a very good lawyer we know can manage an amnesty for him."

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

Teleli moved silently in and out of the shelter, tending the fire, replenishing tea and water and bringing the women dried berries and bowls of sweet paste made from pine cones. He watched Ilsa with a combination of awe, hope and sadness; to Rivka's eyes it was as though he saw in Ilsa a rebirth and redemption for which he had prayed, but one in which he himself would not, in the end, be able to share.

He murmured to Rivka that he was stepping outside to keep watch, and would be listening if they needed anything.

Rivka unpacked the medical supplies she had brought in her bag, and washed her hands with soap and water. She had Ilsa lie back against a pile of bedding, covered her legs and belly with a blanket, and lifted up her dress so she could assess the position of the baby. The baby was active – this Rivka could feel and see easily, because Ilsa was so slim. The movement was very reassuring of the baby's well-being, but Rivka listened for a heartbeat as well with her stethoscope, and was glad to hear it stay rapid and steady throughout a contraction. When she palpated Ilsa's pregnant belly, the problem was immediately apparent.

"Ilsa, you were right, the baby isn't coming down as she should. She's not in the right position. She's not head up or head down – she's lying sideways, transverse."

"What can you do?" If Ilsa had seemed to Rivka like a flickering flame before, now she was blazing up hot and bright, fueled by the knowledge that her husband, her love, the father of her baby, was alive and waiting for her. She looked at Rivka with trust in her eyes and a readiness to do whatever was necessary to bring this new life into the world and bring her family back together.

"I'm going to check from the inside," Rivka explained, "to confirm the baby's lie, and to see how far you've dilated. But I can't deliver her in this position. I'm going to have to try to turn her, head down, if possible, though even breech would be manageable."

Rivka was deep in thought as she explained to Ilsa what she needed to do: she was going to manually push – hard – from the outside of her belly in order to rotate the baby from sideways to head-down. It would be uncomfortable, Rivka could guarantee that. In Ilsa's favor: her water hadn't broken yet, and the baby seemed small, with plenty of fluid in which to move. This was, however, a first pregnancy. That, together with the fact that Ilsa was in active labor, could make the procedure more difficult.

Rivka's initial attempts made it clear that Ilsa's labor was too strong and her contractions too frequent to accomplish the version in the brief lulls in between. She would have to try to slow the labor, just for long enough to get it done. But how –? She didn't have any of the pharmaceuticals she would have had in San Francisco or Philadelphia. Nor did she have access to an operating room, if she were not successful in this. That was a chilling possibility, and one Rivka put out of her mind for the moment, though she knew what was at stake. If she could not get this baby turned, it would be a death sentence for mother, or baby, or possibly both.

She did have a small bottle of distilled grain alcohol that she kept on hand primarily as an antiseptic. The chemist in San Francisco had informed her that, by volume, the alcohol content was twice that of whiskey. _One shot ought to be **more** than enough_, Rivka thought, and so she poured out just an ounce of the clear liquid into a cup and brought it to Ilsa.

"This is going to make you just a bit drunk," she explained seriously, "but it will slow your contractions and relax your muscles inside so I can get this baby pointing in the right direction. It doesn't taste good – doesn't taste like much of anything, actually – but just toss it back quick."

Ilsa nodded her understanding. She swallowed it quickly, grimacing as the alcohol burned in her chest. It took effect quickly, and she began to doze between contractions. Rivka hovered over her, timing her contractions as they slowed, visualizing how she would place her hands and push when the time came, and praying, praying, praying.

Outside, Teleli watched and waited and offered up his own prayers for Osa and her baby. He marveled that she might soon be reunited with all that she thought she had lost. For months she had grieved, but she never gave up on the life she held inside her. Teleli prayed for her, and prayed for himself, that he too might find such courage.

He heard horses approaching. His three companions rode in to the clearing and dismounted, brushing snow from their deerskin cloaks.

"What happened? Where is Me'weh?"

"We don't know, Teleli. We returned to the place where he had stopped before. He wasn't there. We tracked him for a little distance, but then we lost him."

"I promised the doctor we would bring him in safe. Circle around again and look for him. The storm is slowing – go look for any signs. Find him."

Worried now, Teleli watched the three men fan out on foot in different directions and disappear into the woods. He waited a few minutes, then chose a direction himself to walk out and see if he could pick up any tracks. He had just left the clearing and was making his way toward the river when he heard a soft whistle, and saw one of his men beckoning to him at a distance. As he got closer, the man called to him softly, "Teleli – over here – Yayali is coming."


	62. Chapter 61 - Steep Ways

_And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them._

 _Isaiah 42:16_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

The snowfall and wind had died down, and now there were intervals of blazing sunshine as Nick and Audra rode through the deep, pristine snow. The horses were plowing ahead, often in drifts well over their knees, but they were fit, well-cared for animals, and they had little difficulty with the trail. All three, in fact, seemed energized and excited by the brisk, changeable weather. The surroundings, however, were not lightening Nick's mood in the least.

He turned in the saddle as they reached a point that gave a broad view of the wilderness of foothills and mountainside they had traversed, and the broad valley beyond. "I can't believe Heath came this far on foot, and into the heart of the storm. He'd never make it back from here, you know, not on foot. He'd freeze before he was halfway home." His voice was taut with anger and the effort it was taking him not to raise his voice. "He'd freeze, dammit. The boy is on a suicide mission."

"Nick, don't say that –"

" ** _Someone's_** gotta say it."

Nick saw the look of distress on Audra's face and immediately softened. "I'm sorry, honey – I - hey, cut it out, Charger!" He grabbed his saddle horn for balance as Charger lunged to one side, pulling the lead line out of Nick's grip.

Charger took only a few steps to the side of the trail and then stood, prancing and fussing in place. He buried his nose into a deep drift, pawing at the ground with one forefoot. As Nick dismounted to retrieve him - complaining all the while about the colt's odd behavior – the bay lifted his now snow-covered head, shook, sneezed, and blew forcefully, spraying Nick liberally with a combination of half-melted snow and horse saliva. Cursing and wiping his eyes, Nick lunged to grab the lead line. Charger easily sidled out of his reach and resumed pawing at the ground.

Nick staggered a few steps closer and got his hand on the lead, then immediately had to jump back to avoid Charger's digging hoof. "What are you **_doing_** , Charger? Settle yourself down. We don't have time for this. We have to find Heath, and we don't even know if we're looking in the right direction." His anxiety for his brother was starting to get the best of him, Nick knew, and he made a concerted effort to calm himself down. "C'mon, boy. Let's go." He paused. "What's that?"

He squatted down and cleared away some snow with one gloved hand, carefully, until he found what had caught his attention. He picked it up and studied it, feeling relieved and yet somehow even more worried than he had been before.

"Nick, what is it? Did Charger find something?"

 _Nick looked at his hands as though realizing for the first time that he was crushing his brother up against the barn wall. He let go of Heath's jacket and brushed him off. Heath looked down at his boots._

 _"John wants me to back him as his deputy." He spoke like a man making a confession._

 _Nick raised his eyebrows, then nodded. "And..?"_

 _"And - maybe his confidence is misplaced."_

 _"Lemme see that thing." Nick held out a gloved hand. Heath handed him the star. Nick looked at it thoughtfully. "Y'know, you were three-quarters dead and half out of your mind a few months ago, and you still rode 25 miles in less than two hours in the middle of the night, got shot, and then saved my life. John knows what he's doing." He hefted the badge, then he clipped it to the breast pocket of Heath's jacket and nodded in satisfaction. "Yep. That's where it goes." He gave Heath's shoulder a pat, his worried expression easing just a little as he met his brother's eyes. "What you need, boy, is to get a little bit better at taking care of yourself."_

"I found his – I found the Deputy Marshal star he was wearing on his coat." It glinted in his palm as another patch of bright sunlight raced over the mountainside. It was half-covered with dried blood that was certainly Heath's, judging by Charger's reaction. Nick closed his hand around the star, then stayed crouched where he was, searching the snow and scrutinizing the surrounding terrain for any other signs of his brother. _Dammit, Heath, what are you **doing**? Please be OK. Please be close by. _Nick found himself hoping Heath had dropped the star there by accident – the thought of him deliberately casting it aside made Nick very uneasy.

"He can't be far away, honey," he called to Audra in a voice meant to reassure himself just as much as his little sister. He walked Charger back over, slipping the badge in his pocket. Checking over the bay's tack and Coco's before he mounted up, he noticed the longbow and arrows were stowed in Charger's right-hand saddle scabbard, where Heath always used to pack his Winchester.

"Audra, where's Heath's rifle?"

"I have it in my saddle scabbard. I didn't pack his handgun – I figured I needed the space for extra food and some dry clothes for him."

Nick nodded his approval, and did his best to shake off his feeling of dread. "Good thinking, honey. Guess we'll keep on following these horses' noses, they're leading us right so far."

Nox abruptly lifted her head and pricked her ears forward, nostrils dilated and huffing at the cold air. She whickered softly. As if in answer, the cry of a woman came to their ears. It rose and fell and wove through the forest, coming from somewhere up ahead.

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, December 3, 1874_**

Rivka took a minute to warm her hands over the fire so as not to startle Ilsa when she lay them on her belly to turn the baby. Ilsa dozed through a contraction, her brow furrowed only slightly. Her pains had spaced out considerably; Rivka hoped, in fact, Ilsa wouldn't even wake up until Rivka really started to push. The contraction passed. Rivka laid her hands on her belly, feeling the baby's position once more, and waiting for the uterus to soften and relax. _This one's going to work. I can feel it._ With such positive thinking in the forefront of her mind, Rivka pushed, aiming to rotate the baby clockwise to get her head pointing downward. She increased the pressure as she felt the baby's head sliding at the edge of the pelvis. Ilsa's eyes popped open and she cried out just as Rivka felt the baby lift over the pelvic rim and drop in where she belonged. She moaned as immediately a powerful contraction started. Rivka listened with her stethoscope, pleased with the rapid, strong beat of the baby's heart. _Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God –_ she smiled at Ilsa, relief written all over her face.

Ilsa was breathing hard, eyes wide, unable to respond until the contraction passed.

" ** _That_** one was different," she panted, once she could speak. "That was strong – different –"

"Yes, I bet it was. You'll be in labor for real now. Sorry to say it may hurt a lot more before you're done. Now that the baby's head is where it should be, every time the pain comes, the baby will be pushing you more open from the inside, making room to come out."

"Yes, yes – I can feel that –" She started puffing again as the next wave started. "You're – you're not joking, Rivka –" and she laughed, sharing the doctor's relief even as the pain rose. Hearing her cry in pain, Teleli stuck his head in the door to see if all was well. His look of worry was subsumed by one of wonder, as he saw the two women laughing together, even as Ilsa labored to bring her baby out into the world.

He took up his place again outside the shelter. _The doctor is happy with how things are going, that is good. That is very, very good._ Tears rose in his eyes as some of his fear for Osa abated. Now, grave and preoccupied, he stood and scanned the woods, thinking about what he had heard by the river just now, and considering where his path would lead him next.

* * *

 _What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,  
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?  
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,  
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,  
Where the long cloud, the long wood's counterpart,  
Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill._

 _Dante Gabriel Rosetti, "Without Her", 1869_

* * *

 ** _Tuolumne River, December 3, 1874_**

He moved like mist through the trees, wrapped in deerskin of gray and brown, the cloak thrown over his head against the thick falling snow. The river had led him to the discovery of a few cached provisions, hidden in a crude dugout shelter that had long since been abandoned by a Miwok family fleeing for their lives. He had thought on them, for a moment, and had tried to imagine the family that prepared this shelter in hopes of survival. He thanked them for the help they gave him now, and he wondered about their fate.

The river was not yet frozen, and the flowing water whispered to him. She asked him to follow her down, tugging at him with a gentle, liquid voice that he trusted. _Down the mountain, down to the valley, home._

He was broken and worn down to the bone, he knew this. He ached to go home, but the familiar sounds of tree and wind and river kept shifting and changing unpredictably; the murmuring became growling and hissing, and the forest would suddenly give terrifying voice to the shadows and flashes of threat he saw all around him. He no longer had any way to fend it off. In himself he could find no shelter, and he could not bring such a disordered state of mind into the lives of normal people – and so he turned back. He kept moving, upstream. He kept hunting. It was the only thing he could do.

 _Thanksgiving_ , he thought, _I saw something then, I remember I did. I saw a path home. Jarrod put his hand on my shoulder and we looked at it together._

That vision eluded him, now. His thinking had become a maze of moving, splintered mirrors that distorted everything he saw. Again and again he tried to reclaim that path, or even just keep it in sight. He had failed. He was lost in his own prison of dead ends and lethal, unstable walls of broken glass.

 _I don't want him to know what he did._

He had tried to ignore it; he had tried to work and sweat his way past it; for months he had done his best to think his way through it. He had been given – and accepted - more help than he ever thought possible, and certainly more than he deserved. He had prayed, he had begged, he had wept, he had raged. Nothing now seemed to slow the steady tightening of this noose around his mind and soul; nothing eased the inexorable, implacable, dragging pull of the rope.

He understood he had arrived now at another dismal, inelegant stage of this purgatory. Hopeless, but not yet resigned, he found himself engaged in sporadic, futile battles to escape; mindlessly, erratically, he spent his energy attacking the walls like the rabid mongrel dog he'd always been told he was anyway. Any respite he gained grew more fleeting. Each defeat bled away more of his flagging belief and self-confidence. He seemed to himself a ghost, a shadow, limping through these familiar mountains where once, briefly, he had been greening, swift, and alive.

It was fitting, to his bleak way of thinking, that Morgan had reappeared, now, to gut him when he was about as down as he had ever been; Colonel Morgan, the man who had so efficiently ended whatever little bit of childhood Heath had left, and hustled him off to war. Just the passing thought of him filled Heath with dread. He wondered what had happened down at the encampment, when Jarrod delivered his expected gambit and countermove. Heath doubted Morgan would retreat peaceably. _He won't retreat_. _He won't give up quietly. So what will he do -?_

 _What will I do?_


	63. Chapter 62 - Fruits of Labor

_How such united force of gods, how such  
As stood like these, could ever know repulse?  
_ _For who can yet believe, though after loss,  
That all these puissant legions whose exile  
Hath emptied Heav'n shall fail to re-ascend,  
Self-raised, and repossess their native seat?_

 _John Milton, "Paradise Lost"_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

He rode alone, tracking swiftly, draped in a dark wool cavalry cloak that reached his ankles and spread over the haunches of his laboring horse. The chestnut stallion was big, and strong, but he was steaming and breathing clouds of vapor with the exertion of the pace.

Morgan felt no fatigue. He was closing in on his prize, his trophy, and he felt unstoppable. His loyal officers had fallen away, gradually, the last few refusing to charge forward with him into a blinding mountain snow squall. _All the better. Nothing to slow me down now._

The rapid disintegration of his offensive against Marshal Smith had come as a shock, but Morgan was a man who lived for war of one sort or another. He had a plan, a route of retreat, and vast sums of money socked away on both sides of the border. It had been close, so close, the goal he had sought. Smith had yet again struck it away, and this time he had obliterated the scaffolding of power the colonel had so carefully assembled.

Morgan was obliged to retreat. He would recoup his resources, and he would plan. Revenge, and revenge alone, would become his goal and guiding principle.

He could not leave this field of battle yet, though. He wanted his trophy. Smith might have drawn first blood in this war, but before Morgan backed away he intended to inflict a grievous wound on the marshal and the whole Barkley family. No small scratch or slice, no. Harrison Morgan, the fugitive, planned to bury a Bowie knife in Smith's guts and twist it, figuratively speaking.

* * *

 _Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light._

 _John Milton, "Paradise Lost"_

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, December 3, 1874_**

"That's good, Ilsa, good, keep breathing – this one's almost over. Pretty soon, just a few more of these, and you can start pushing this baby out. Good. Breathe. Breathe."

Ilsa fell back on the pile of blankets, sweaty and panting, but smiling nonetheless. "Thirsty –" she managed, and gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Rivka.

"You're doing so well, Ilsa. This is the hardest part, usually. I think you're going to have a baby well before sundown today."

Ilsa closed her eyes and nodded. "I am so lucky to have had Teleli help me when I was lost, when I thought Peter was gone, and Nox. It has been so hard to hold on to hope. I had no idea what would be, for me, or for the baby. Teleli kept me safe. And now you are here, and Peter is _alive_ – I'm so blessed, Rivka. So grateful. And so impatient." She laughed and opened her eyes again. "How soon after the baby can we go to where Peter is?"

Teleli entered the shelter with fresh water, and Rivka eyes followed him intently as she answered Ilsa's question. "If all goes well, you could travel by sunup tomorrow." She turned back to Ilsa. "But I have to admit, Ilsa, because of how I arrived here, I hadn't really thought through that part of it. You can't very well hike down on foot. At the very least we'd need horses, and I don't think Teleli kept the ones he stole to bring us up here."

Further talk of travel stopped as another contraction supervened, and Ilsa panted and rocked and squeezed Rivka's hand ferociously. As it faded, Rivka stepped back and knelt down to face Teleli by the fire where he was preparing another pot of tea. Now that Ilsa's labor was progressing favorably, all of Rivka's anxiety about Heath resurfaced, and she was acutely aware of how much time had passed since Teleli had sent his three companions back to retrieve him.

" _Teleli_." Her voice was low and intense. She waited until he met her eyes. "Where is Heath? Where are your men? They promised – **_you_** promised – to bring him in safe. It's been almost three hours. Where **_are_** they?"

Teleli sighed and dropped his gaze to the fire. "Me'weh – your Heath – he is here." She gasped in surprise, and he frowned, preoccupied by the flood of memories and questions that had come to him when he found Me'weh waiting for him by the river.

He could so clearly picture the wounded, half-drowned child they had pulled from the river, even now, fifteen years later. Me'weh had been small and wiry; overly lean, in fact, like the Miwok children, the result of a life outdoors and a marginal, unpredictable food supply. His shaggy hair was the color of the foothills grass in summer, and his eyes were a strange, disturbing pale blue. He was sick, in enormous pain, blind, and lost far from his own people. But what Teleli remembered the most was the embattled look of the boy. He'd been terrified, clearly – Teleli had watched his expression as he listened to the Barkley men mount up and ride away. Young as he was, his efforts to remain stoic were ferocious, and he bore himself like an outcast who expected no quarter, no shelter, and no welcome anywhere. Yet he was respectful to Teleli, and kind to Husu. They, in turn, were both drawn to the blue-eyed, blind boy, and they were both, in retrospect, shocked that the White men didn't find a way to take the child with them out of harm's way.

Teleli could still see that world-weary boy in the face of the man he found by the river. There was that resigned, hunted look; there was his grim, white-knuckled effort to control whatever was going on in his mind; and there were those blue eyes. Those eyes were blind now in a different, more crippling way - a kind of blindness that Teleli recognized immediately.

"Heath's **_here_**? Where?"

"I spoke with him by the river. He would not come with me. He knows you are here with Ilsa, he has been watching. He told me that two other Barkleys are close and should arrive soon, a son and a daughter of Tom Barkley, and he said to tell you they are bringing Nox, and they will bring you and Ilsa and the baby home." Teleli frowned again. "Me'weh told me also there is danger coming. He is hunting, and watching."

"He wouldn't come with you -?" Rivka stood and turned toward the door, aching to run outside to find Heath but knowing she couldn't leave Ilsa now.

Teleli could see how torn she was. "I am watching for him," he said, trying to ease her mind. "I know he is not well and you are worried for him. Demons are hunting and hounding him right now, and his spirit is not safe anywhere. So he has to keep moving, has to keep hunting, because the demons will bury him or pull him out of himself. That is why he wouldn't come with me."

Rivka gritted her teeth, holding back tears and a desire to howl in rage. _Morgan,_ she hissed the name in her mind. _What did that foul creature do to you now, Heath? And then to find me gone – My love, I wish you could hear me. I am safe, all will be well, please come back to me, come back to yourself. Please –_

"You will stay with Osa?" Teleli's voice was gentle.

She took a deep breath, blew it out. "Yes. Yes, I will." She studied his face, struck by the genuine compassion that showed there despite his bleak circumstances and history. There it was, again, that quality that reminded her of Heath. "You don't seem crazy," she said. "Everyone describes you as crazy, even Husu and Haja."

His smile was mournful. "I **_was_** crazy – for a long time, like Me'weh is crazy now. When I first found Osa, I was lost far away from myself, in and out of time, the whole world full of demons running loose. There was no trail I could see that would bring me back to Hekeke, to my children, to my home. I had failed. I couldn't do anything to protect my people. I was ready to die – I wanted to die. And then I found Osa – carrying life inside her even though Death had surrounded her and cut everything away down to the bone. I thought she was a spirit, a ghost we had called up with our dancing. She was like a _chakka_ * who had somehow survived the burning and the exile. She carried life, and the future of life. I believed I had to tend to her and keep her safe or the whole world would die of disease and war. My three friends – they stayed by me and helped me care for her, even though they were not crazy like me.

"I have sent my friends home. They have a home to go to now, and they are not known to the marshals who have hunted me. They have families waiting for them. There is no more we can do up here in the high country. That time is done. They will bring the Ghost Dance down to our village, to what is left of our people. They will help them to remember our strength and our history, and dance for peace, and give the children some hope for the future.

"Helping Osa helped me be less crazy, I think. She held on to hope somehow. I don't know when it happened, when I could see her as a woman, a mother, a person who needed help, instead of a ghost spirit…but somehow she helped me. Maybe I can help Me'weh – I don't know."

"You don't know if you can?"

"I don't know if he will let me. And I don't know if I will have the chance. The lawmen still hunt me, and Haja told me there is a big price on my head. If the brother and sister are close, the marshals can't be far behind. I may not have my freedom for much longer. But I think at least it would help Me'weh to know that I was lost like him, and that it is possible to come back." He nodded to himself, and, as was his way, he spoke the truth he saw, as clearly as possible.

"It is a terrible, terrible place where he is. He will choose to die, if he cannot see a way out."

Rivka stared at him, her mind awash with questions - _Heath, where are you? Audra is close by, with Nick? And what other danger is coming_ – but she was pulled from her thoughts as Ilsa cried out with another contraction. This one was long and hard and brought with it a gush of fluid. Rivka held Ilsa and rubbed her back until the pain passed, then washed her hands so she could check the baby's position once more.

"I feel so much pressure –" Ilsa whispered.

"That's the baby you feel coming down, sweetie, and you're doing great. It's time. Next contraction that comes, I want you to stay sitting forward like you are, hold onto your knees, and push."

Teleli rose to go. Rivka looked up at him from where she crouched beside Ilsa, the silent plea in her eyes mirrored in his. He nodded again, then ducked through the door to meet the two riders who were emerging now from the woods.

 _* Chakka: A granary used to store harvested acorns. Teleli's band took the name Chakka because they hoped to keep and protect the sources of their peoples' strength and life-force "until the next harvest comes"._


	64. Chapter 63 - Vox Clamantis in Deserto

_To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders._

 _Lao Tzu_

* * *

 _A voice cries in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord._

 _Isaiah 40:3_

* * *

Teleli stepped outside to meet the riders, letting the heavy snow-covered pine branches fall back down behind him as he straightened. Wary, he nonetheless endeavored to hold his mind quiet and open as his grandfather Papati had taught him, when he was boy learning to be an herb shaman and healer.

Papati had guided him – and his sister Haja before him – to allow the dreams and visions to come; to accept fear, but keep it from clouding sight; and to learn, always _learn_ , even when what one sees is ugly or frightening. Papati did not differentiate much between the world of the spirit and the world of the body, and Teleli certainly had seen much in his life – in both worlds - that was ugly and frightening. _Just watch,_ Papati would say. _Quiet and open. Just watch._

He did not sense threat from the riders, and he allowed himself to relax and breathe a sigh of relief. He studied them as they emerged from the mist and lightly falling snow. His eye was drawn first to the majestic black horse, who was every bit as beautiful as Osa had described her. Nox entered the clearing with a clear attitude of intent and arrival. Her head was up; her ears were forward; she was actively scenting the air and searching the woods before her with her eyes. She pranced as she walked, with a high-stepping, floating grace that made her seem as impatient as a racehorse at the gate, and as ethereal as an angel.

Riding the black mare was a blond woman Teleli immediately recognized as Me'weh's sister. She too was searching the woods with eyes of that strange, sky color; she sat the giant, dancing horse with absolute ease and balance, as if they were one creature, half-dark and half-light. The blue eyes fell on him, and she smiled. Open as he was, he felt briefly breathless with the full warmth and kindness she offered him so freely. He wondered if Me'weh ever smiled like that.

He walked out toward them to show that they were welcome, and shifted his attention to the man. This was Tom Barkley's younger son, not the one who had come back to the village after the burning. This one was about the same age as Teleli himself – he had been a teenager when Barkley came to warn them about the hunters. Teleli could picture him clearly in his memory. He had stayed mounted and waiting outside the roundhouse, not paying too much attention to what the adults were arguing about, but watching and ready to jump as soon as his father gave an order. Teleli remembered that about him: his eyes always on the father, hungry to learn _what_ he did and _how_ he did it; full of pride and a concentrated desire to soak up the father's presence and emulate him. That boy's desire had drawn Teleli's curiosity because at that time, at that age, Teleli was very aware he didn't feel that way about his own father.

There was another point of difference: Teleli was certain **_his_** father, before he died, did not look to his son's opinion of him – or of anything, for that matter - as a source of support. His father was a hard-headed, stubborn, self-driven man who had the perfect temperament to be a guerilla fighter in a losing cause. Teleli was not at all surprised when his father argued for Me'weh to be thrown back in the river.

And so Teleli found himself focusing on a different detail of that night, one that took on significance when he considered it in the light of Me'weh's history with this Barkley family that Rivka had shared with him. As translator for his grandfather, Teleli of necessity had stayed close by the Barkley father during that brief visit, and had watched and listened to him closely. He remembered both sons' alert, energetic devotion to their father; now, however, he could see in his memory the father's fervent, powerful **_need_** for that devotion. The sons, especially the younger one, were not slavish, but they jumped with the pride of disciplined soldiers. The father, Teleli could see, noticed this. He monitored it. Tom Barkley drew on his sons' pride in him for strength and sustenance.

This quality, this need that Teleli was remembering now: it went a long way to explain Tom Barkley's lack of courage when he came upon his bastard son that night in Sutamasina.

His decision to leave the boy behind had shocked Teleli at the time, but even more so in retrospect, when he understood that the father's startled reaction was in fact one of recognition and well-founded anxiety. Faced with an abandoned boy, so young and in such dire straits, almost **_any_** complete stranger – at least one who wasn't a criminal, or fleeing for his life - would have acted with more compassion. Barkley's rapid assessment and rapid retreat made a great deal more sense to Teleli now. He could see the source of his fear, when he pictured the father watching his sons, and needing his sons.

Now, fifteen years later, that good son – and a daughter - had returned to Sutamasina, in search of Me'weh and the weeping woman, and guided here by Osa's prodigious black horse. Tom Barkley was many years dead, but the family was here, supporting a team of U.S. Marshals, of all things, in their stand to protect what was left of Teleli's people. It was all so strange and unexpected.

The son, Nicholas, was much bigger now, and much more authoritative in his bearing. In that, he resembled his father. He was no longer a junior officer, he had become a general. He approached Teleli riding slightly ahead of his sister in a protective posture. That is, he was _trying_ to stay ahead, but the big black mare had clearly taken charge of the herd and would have none of it. She was bossing the man's palomino, and would shoulder the gelding out of the way every time the man tried to regain the point position. It was an amusing dance to watch, and Teleli was grinning by the time they came up close.

"I think Nox knows she has found who she is looking for," he said to Audra with a smile.

Before she could answer, Ilsa cried out from inside the hidden shelter. It was a long, triumphant sound that resolved into weeping and laughter; Nox threw back her head and trumpeted her answer. The horse's cry reverberated from her massive chest and echoed up the mountainside, and before the sound had faded, there came the miraculous, lusty, powerful cry of a newborn baby girl.


	65. Chapter 64 - The Sound of Time

_And grief shall endure not for ever, I know.  
As things that are not shall these things be;  
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,  
And none be grievous as this to me.  
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears,  
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;  
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow  
As tender things of a spring-tide sea._

 _Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Triumph of Time"_

* * *

Crouched at the base of a tree in a rough shelter of snow and leaves and deadwood, Heath dozed, restless and frowning as pieces of memories boiled up into his dreams. Erratic and insubstantial, these ghosts of scalding vapor spun around him, blistering his skin and vanishing as unpredictably as they had appeared.

 _"Hey, puppy, the further you make us chase you the more you're going to pay at the end, you know that, don't you?"_

Constantly, without respite, from the moment he had come back to himself on this mountainside, Heath heard the voice of his mother, screaming out his name in pain and terror. No matter that he kept moving or fell down from exhaustion, he heard her. He could feel in his body a helpless, suffocating, crushing blackness as his mother screamed; he heard the sound of fists striking her face and her body; with his shadowed sight he saw her battered and bloody, as Rachael and Hannah wept over her.

 _"…don't want him to know."_

 _What did I do -?_

 _"Oh, God, Hannah, is he dead? Is he **dead**?"_

He had become too exhausted to keep moving, as the day waned. His thinking was confused; he was sleep-deprived, in pain, and overwhelmed by the shrouded, chimeric threats that whispered and moved and lunged at him from all sides. He had circled back once more to scout the approaches to Sutamasina for the enemy's position; further out, he caught a glimpse of riders that looked like the law. On the return leg he spotted Audra and Nick, and Charger with his saddle empty. Aching in his soul and dizzy with fatigue, Heath had stopped in his tracks and lost himself in watching them, moving through the woods like inhabitants of an unapproachable homeland. He didn't know how long he watched. That lapse alone was enough to terrify him back into motion. Any motion. Time-loose voices and images echoed, joined and separated, forming disjointed, transient mosaics of deceptive logic.

 _It looks like a pattern, but –_

 _"Why do you want to drag this mess of yours through their respectable lives any more than you already have? Why would you do that to them?_ _What is the point, 597? Confess. Let that good family go. Let them go."_

Not for the first time, half-blinded by the windstorm in his head, he had stumbled and fallen, and found himself staring at the snowy ground again, on his hands and knees. In a brief moment of clarity, he admitted he had to stop, somehow. He had seen that Rivka was safe, that Teleli had sent his three men away. Audra and Nick were very close, and he knew they would bring Rivka and Ilsa to safety. They would do that. He could trust them. He could trust his life to them, and so he could trust his love to their keeping, and very nearly wept with gratitude for that fact.

Other dangers were coming, but there was little he could do about that yet. He had to find some way to rest, if he were to have any hope against the enemy. He thought it very unlikely that he would prevail, or even survive, but he hoped at least to divert, delay, and wound before any danger could approach the people down below in Sutamasina. He crawled to the base of a large pine, from which vantage point he could see the clearing where Ilsa had been hidden. He quickly constructed a shelter for warmth and concealment. Hidden from view and wrapped in an old deerskin cloak, he had crouched; watching, waiting, he listened to the screaming in his head, until exhaustion won out and he fell asleep.

* * *

The sound of the baby's voice brought a smile to everyone's face. Even Charger and Coco seemed to be picking up on the excitement, though Charger was distracted, his attention directed at the forest around them. The pine branch lifted, and Rivka stepped out, drying her hands on a cloth. She looked drained, but she too wore a smile, and embraced Audra and Nick as they dismounted.

"She's beautiful, she's perfect," she said, turning to Teleli. "And Ilsa is just fine. She did so well – she is so brave. Once we had the baby turned, really, everything went just as it should. And when she heard Nox – well, you can imagine, she's crying and laughing and singing and just about everything else in there."

"Oh, that's wonderful, that's such good news –" Audra beamed, but then her eyes met Rivka's, and she saw the worry there, barely contained in the moment of celebration. She realized she and Nick had been assuming they would find all four of the people they sought, once they arrived, but Rivka's face was telling her otherwise. She looked around the clearing. "Rivka, where is Heath?"

"He's nearby," Rivka answered quickly, the strain beginning to show in her voice. Nick and Audra were now both staring at her, and she did her best to calm both them and herself. She had thought long and hard about what Teleli had said to her; she found herself trusting him, and tentatively trusting his judgement where Heath was concerned. "Teleli says he's nearby, he's watching, but he wouldn't come in."

"What d'ya mean, he wouldn't come in?" Nick demanded. "That fool boy is running around out there like a spooked mustang –" He turned to look suspiciously at Teleli. He had only a vague memory of their meeting so long ago, and could summon up only a hazy impression of a boy about his age translating for the village headman. "And **_you_** , saying he's fine. You're the one they all say is a madman. Why should I believe **_you_**?"

"Why should you believe me? Because I spoke to him, I guess, so I know what he said, and I have no reason to lie," Teleli responded. He was back on his guard, but he was making a concerted effort not to bristle at Nick's belligerence. "I never said he is fine. I don't think he is fine at all." He studied the brother and sister. Rivka had said this family had completely taken the abandoned son into their hearts, and he could see the truth of it in these two. "A madman – yes, I am, though not nearly so crazy, anymore, as I was. I was crazy, like Me'weh – like your Heath - is now. He is not fine. But he is doing the best he can not to – not to go away. Not to lose his way. I have been watching for him. I have promised Rivka I will help him in any way I can."

"But you never came home!" Audra burst out. "Maybe you understand what he's going through, but we want him to come **_home_**. How are you going to help him do that? Or are you going to help him to keep running?"

Teleli looked at her in surprise, and couldn't help but smile at how directly she had touched the question he had been turning over in his own mind. "He has a home, which is something neither I nor my people have had for a long, long time. With a price on my head, even now, I do not see a way back for me, even if my village has a safe place to build a home. But Me'weh has a home and a future. I might be the best person to help him remember and hold onto that. He has to run. But I would want to help him stay on a path that will bring him back to you."

" ** _Has_** to run? Why? If he's here, why can't he just come with us?" Tearful and frustrated, Audra had an irrational desire to shout at the mute forest and demand the return of her brother.

"Has to, yes, I think so. He will never be free of what rages around him, because it is what **_was_** , and cannot be erased. It is always there, but he is all – all –" He searched for the right word. "- all _uprooted_ now. Broken. Loose in the wind, and demons all around. He will not – he cannot - bring such a storm into his family's home. Nor would I, when I was crazy. But I would go home now, if I could. I'd want him to know that, at least."

It took all of Teleli's control to keep the depth of his grief from his voice as he spoke those last words. He wanted to howl at the sky with his desire to go home. His thoughts of flight now were driven entirely by the marshals he knew were coming, and his certain belief that a return to prison was inevitable, and would inevitably destroy him. Home was lost to him, but he realized he wanted, at least, to help Me'weh. His instinct told him that the galloping rescue these Barkleys desired would not lead to the homecoming they wanted, and he hoped his words would help slow their charge. He could see them both struggling to hold back. He looked to Rivka. She wanted the galloping rescue too, no doubt, but she understood.

"Perhaps we should visit with Ilsa and get her ready to travel back down to the valley," Rivka said, in a voice of brittle hopefulness. "We can rest up, and maybe Heath will feel better and come and join us." She took a deep breath, brightened a little, and added, "Ilsa already wants to come outside with the baby to see Nox."

"She can't do that, can she?" Nick blurted, surprised. "So soon? She can't move around like that yet, right?"

Rivka laughed at his shock. "Well, strictly speaking, Nick, this is a normal, natural thing, when there're no complications. It's not like she's just had surgery, or been injured. Though I do think she should take it slow, just in case she gets dizzy. Also, she's not dressed for snow. And the baby must not get cold." She looked thoughtfully at Nick. "I'm going to put you to work, big guy. Let me check and see how she is doing; if all is well, I think we'll bundle her and the baby in blankets, and you, Nick, will carry her outside to see her beloved horse." She grinned at him and vanished back inside the shelter before he could respond.

Flustered but strangely honored, Nick blushed and turned away to hide the smile of pleasure he couldn't quite suppress. He busied himself with cinches and saddlebags, acutely aware that Audra was watching him with amusement.

"Normal and natural, Nick. Don't worry. Rivka will keep everyone safe."

He snorted. "Oh, like you're so experienced. I've delivered a lot more livestock than you over the years, I'll have you know."

"Livestock?" she giggled.

"All right, all right –"

"OK, Nick, you can come in."

Smiling, Audra watched her big brother follow Rivka into the shelter with an uncharacteristic look of an awed and uncertain altar boy. Then she sighed and turned in a circle, her eyes sad and searching the darkening, snow-covered forest for any sign of her brother.


	66. Chapter 65 - New Arrivals

_Bullets exploded the wood into splinters around him. A blazing line of pain striped one shoulder as a bullet grazed him. He flinched, and lost his grip on the rope._

 _Malila screamed as she suddenly began sliding rapidly toward the empty verge of the barn roof. She scrabbled vainly for something to slow her descent, looking up at him with terror in her eyes. "Me'weh -! Me'weh, don't let me fall –"_

 _She was falling away from him. It was all falling away and out of his reach. Falling into nothing. His head was full of crashing darkness, and the splintering, cracking pain of broken branches._

 _Malila slipped over the edge of the roof. For a brief second, she hung on, her terrified eyes locked on his._

 _"You let go –- Heath, why did you let me -?"_

 _She fell out of sight._

He woke with a jolt and curled himself forward over his knees, gasping, his eyes wide in horror. With the instinctive, preconscious reflexes of a fugitive, he jammed his forearm against his mouth to muffle the scream that swelled in his throat. Just the sound of his abrupt wakening was too much noise already. He held perfectly still, waiting for the hammering of his heart to ease enough so that he could listen to the forest around his hidden shelter.

His body seemed made of pain; after the brief rest in the cold, he could barely differentiate where one aching stiffness started and another ended. He tentatively tested his left arm and found a few more degrees of motion, but it still wasn't much good. He shifted and rolled his shoulders, wincing. Soon, any minute now, very soon, it would be time to move again.

From the direction of Sutamasina, he could hear a horse's excited trumpeting, several animated voices, and – _maybe – yes, it **was**_ – the cry of a vigorous newborn baby. For a few moments, Heath just soaked up that miraculous sound, sitting in the dim light of his dugout with an expression of wonder.

 _So grateful for that,_ he thought. He heard joy in Nox' wild cry, and in the sound of the people gathered below. _So grateful. Nick, Audra, get them home safe._

He heard a new sound now, close by. Very close. Back on full alert, Heath kept motionless and peered through the gaps of his camouflaged blind. He was not surprised by what he saw. Moving at a careful walk, passing not ten feet in front of his hiding place, the legs and body of a lathered chestnut stallion in military tack came into view. The rider was wrapped in a full-length cavalry cloak, under which he wore a standard cavalry officer's saber on the left hip, and probably a sidearm as well on the right. In his saddle scabbard he carried a 36 inch Whitworth rifle. This uncommon and unexpected weapon Heath recognized immediately, it being an elongated version of the firearm favored by Confederate sharpshooters.

Heath didn't think he'd ever forget the distinctive, chilling whine of the long, tightly-rifled Whitworth bullets, as they flew for hundreds of yards over the battlefield of Chickamauga delivering death from a distance. The Reb snipers' targets of choice, of course, were artillery crews, and Union officers, the higher ranking the better, though any enlisted targets were fine too. For day, after day, after day of that horrible battle, those shrieking bullets would come out of seeming nowhere and cut a man down - including two men in Heath's recon squad, dropped not three feet away from him. He'd been 14 at the time, though he had aged decades by then in the year-and-a-half since he'd met Harrison Morgan.

Morgan rode on, moving to higher ground. Morgan favored the use of snipers, Heath certainly understood that now. He moved out to follow.

* * *

Audra couldn't help but weep as she watched Ilsa bury her face in Nox' mane for a long, silent, reverent moment, and as she witnessed the mare's gentle joy in their reunion. Ilsa introduced the very blond baby girl, who as yet was unnamed. Nox breathed in her scent and brushed over her waving feet and hands with her soft nose. To Audra, the contrast of Nox' glistening black color made the baby seem as though she were made of gold and snowflakes.

Nick carried the bundled-up mother and child as if they were weightless, and to him they may as well have been, mesmerized as he was by the whole scene unfolding before him. He brought them out of the shelter, watching to make sure neither were overly exposed to the cold mountain air. The baby would blink and try to lick the occasional errant snowflake that would land on her face, and Ilsa would laugh and kiss her, and talk to her and to Nox in Dutch. Nick gazed at them speechless. He eventually became aware that tears were rolling down his cheeks, but there was nothing he could do about it, his hands being full.

Audra came up behind him, smiling and tearful herself. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his wet cheek, and hugged him as they looked at the baby together. "Big strong tough Nick," she whispered to him. "You are milk and honey inside, yes you are. Hannah's right." He smiled, and sniffed, and cried a little more. She kissed him again and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Rivka came outside from cleaning up inside the shelter and smiled at the scene. She carried a closed basket. "I wanted to ask Teleli whether the Miwok have any traditions or rituals for the placenta. Where –"

She broke off, looking alarmed, then she sighed and turned in a circle, clearly performing a visual search of the area that she fully expected to be futile. "Of course. Of **_course_** –" she muttered, angry at herself.

"What? What is it?" Nick demanded, unable to turn and look. Audra spotted the problem immediately.

"Charger's gone," Audra confirmed.

"And so is Teleli," Rivka added.

" ** _And_** it looks like we got other company arriving," Nick said, gesturing with his chin at a group of riders now visible though still at a distance, coming up the mountainside. "Looks like the law to me, but just to be safe, Ilsa - ma'am - I think it best you and the baby and Audra and Rivka get inside. I might need my hands free."


	67. Chapter 66 - Overhead

_A WIND sways the pines,  
And below  
Not a breath of wild air;  
Still as the mosses that glow  
On the flooring and over the lines  
Of the roots here and there.  
The pine-tree drops its dead;  
They are quiet, as under the sea.  
Overhead, overhead  
Rushes life in a race,  
As the clouds the clouds chase;  
And we go,  
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,  
Even we,  
Even so._

 _George Meredith, "Dirge in Woods"_

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, December 3, 1874_**

"Nick, you can't go after him, not yet –"

"I know, I know," he barked, propping his rifle under one arm and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. He paced and watched impatiently for the approaching riders to arrive. "Now you all stay out of sight until I see for sure who this is coming."

They didn't have long to wait. Following a clear trail left by Nick and Audra's passage, the marshals arrived at speed. Nick breathed a sigh of relief to see John, Frank, and Jed enter the clearing, though he wasn't entirely satisfied.

"Where's Jarrod?" he asked immediately.

Frank shook his head with a grim smile. "Damn near had to tie him to a chair in Montana's office to get him to stay behind. We've got a lockup full of bad guys in Sonora – and more coming - and a mountain of evidence to process. The state prosecutor can't even figure out where to start without Jarrod's help. Your mother – who, by the way, would make an excellent attorney, in my opinion – and Montana are there helping your brother, managing the lockup, and wrangling the assistant prosecutors who are beginning to arrive from Sacramento. Jarrod's got a lot on his plate right now."

John, meanwhile, had dismounted and followed the tracks in the snow to the far side of the clearing. He stopped in bemusement at the tree line where the footprints appeared to vanish. "That is some remarkable camouflage," he commented, lifting the branches carefully. He smiled as he saw Audra and Rivka emerging from the hidden shelter, and heard the sounds of a healthy mother and child inside. He beckoned the other two marshals over, then turned back to the women with their next pressing questions. "Where's Heath? And where is Teleli?"

Nick fretted impatiently as the marshals shared what they knew and were brought up to date themselves. John had raced out from camp on his own by mid-morning, tracking after Colonel Morgan, who had been briefly spotted by one of the deputy marshals heading up-country via a trail to the north. Frank, meanwhile, had gone out with Jed. The young deputy was fairly sure he had located the original site of Sutamasina in the course of his reconnaissance, and they were gambling that Teleli's hideout was there. The three men had converged just a short distance away, at which point Frank laid into John, loudly and at some length, for his foolishness in chasing after Morgan on his own.

To Jed's surprise, Marshal Smith had accepted his old friend's dressing-down willingly and with some compunction. He quietly admitted to Frank he'd heard the same from Victoria, but he'd still ridden out driven by worry, impatience, anger, and a burning desire for vengeance. Some miles into the mountains, he confessed, he'd cooled off some and was damn glad to have their company.

Frank, for his part, could hardly claim to be cool-headed himself, having been nursing his own smoldering rage from the moment he'd arrived to the prison camp. Jed could attest to the fact that since Heath had gone missing, Frank's veneer of calm had worn thin and his team had been feeling the edge of his tongue all morning. Frank had been on the verge of another tirade when Jed appeared at his side, scared the daylights out of him, and then earned the lasting gratitude of Frank's deputies by drawing him off on this mission to Sutamasina.

Finding the three woman and the baby all well and safe, with Nick standing guard, the marshals' attention quickly turned to continuing their hunt for Heath, Morgan, and Teleli. Nick promptly went nose-to-nose with Frank when it was suggested Nick stay behind with the women while the marshals went out searching.

"Uh-uh. No **_way_** , Frank. My brother is out there. He's injured, he's sick, he's moving on foot and he's exhausted, and I'd bet my life that snake Morgan is up here hunting after him. Teleli I'm not worried about – I know, I know, you have to bring him in at some point – but it's Heath I care about, and I'm not going to sit here and wait. Why don't **_you_** stay – or Jed."

Frank held his ground. The argument was growing heated when Jed stepped in and settled things down.

"It's not a problem, Mr. Barkley, Frank –" he interrupted politely. "Y'all don't need me for tracking at this point - the trail's pretty clear. And I surely ain't going to complain about passing the time with such pleasant company." He winked at Audra with an easy grin, which earned him a smile in return, as well as the glowering attention of John Smith. Unsure whether it was the stepfather or the senior officer whose hackles he had just provoked, Jed quickly wiped the grin off his face, cleared his throat, and offered Marshal Smith a reassuring, deferential salute. "I'll hold the watch here, Marshal."

"Mm-hm." John kept his gray gaze on the young man for a few moments more, his expression measuring but no longer suspicious. "You do that, Deputy." He then turned about, as Audra had, and scanned the granite, forested ridges that rose up around them to the east and south for any sign of the men they sought.

Frank joined him in the middle of the clearing, still steaming, though now without a handy foil for his frustration and worry. He glared at the vast, unhelpful forest that stood in his way, and then he boiled over, bellowing up the mountainside in a voice that startled even Nick.

" ** _HEATH!_** _Heath, **goddammit**_ , WHERE **_ARE_** YOU? You get your sorry hide down here right **_now_** , boy. **RIGHT NOW**. **_HEATH_** **_-!_** "

He was answered with silence, except for the wind in the tops of the pines and the creak of leather on fidgeting horses. Nick sighed and put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Feel better?"

"No," Frank muttered.

Rivka approached the group, her eyes also searching the woods anxiously. "We're well-provisioned here for the time being," she offered. "I know Ilsa wants to get down to see Peter as soon as possible, but it really would be better for her and the baby to rest overnight and ride out in the morning, as long as Teleli is right about the weather holding clear tomorrow. And I – that is, we –" Looking to Audra for confirmation, Rivka was stubbornly holding back tears, but her distress was beginning to show. "Neither Audra nor I want to leave without knowing where Heath is and – and if - if he's OK." Audra nodded in wordless agreement, moving to stand by her side.

"I hope you can find him," Rivka continued, appealing to all three men now with a pleading, uncharacteristically fearful expression that worried John deeply. "I don't think he'll come back with you, though, even if you do."

She wrung her hands anxiously, clearly needing to share the thoughts that had been plaguing her, and just as clearly reluctant to speak them aloud. "John, you tracked Morgan up here. You think he's hunting after Heath, or us, or whoever he can get. Teleli talked to Heath. He says Heath is planning to engage Morgan himself, to keep him away from us."

" ** _He can't do it_ ,** John," she stated with grim certainty. "He's not himself. He's not thinking clearly." John's somber look confirmed for her that he, too, had perceived what she was describing. Rivka had trusted Heath absolutely when he'd been on the run in Nevada, even though his friends and most of his family feared he was out of his mind and was planning to murder the Attorney General. That trust, now, seemed too much of a stretch. It left Rivka with a queasy feeling that she was betraying him somehow, and a need to explain something of what she knew of him. "For most of his life Heath has fought to keep his heart open and keep the past where it belongs. Every day, even on a normal day, he has had to work to stay in the present and remember that he has a future. He has had to work not to think of himself as expendable, as a throwaway, destined for an early death.

"Heath knows that beast well. It is a battle for a life worth living that he steps up to every day. _Every day_ he finds a reason to take it on. _Every. Single. Day._ There have been plenty of ups and downs, but in the end it has been years of stubborn, hard work, and that big heart of his, that has brought him to be the man he is." Her gaze shifted to Frank, who had stopped pacing and was regarding her now with a look full of recognition and memory.

"Nevada pretty much beat him back to where he was in Carterson; maybe worse, in some ways," she went on, her eyes still on Frank. "Hannah thinks so. She said to me, _Hell is sometimes even darker when a person has already made the long climb out, and had some time in the sun. It's hard when a soul knows for a truth just how far there is yet to go to come home_. You all know Heath's been fighting his way out for months. It seemed…I thought…I thought he had gotten a hold, inside himself. I thought he was coming back…but now…now something has cut his legs out from under him. Something has ripped out whatever anchors he had left, and he's just falling."

There was a silence. No one disagreed. Nick scowled at the ground, wondering if this was one more wound for which his father could claim responsibility. He wished like hell their big brother was with him; Jarrod seemed to be able to see and understand some of what was haunting Heath, certainly better than he could. His brooding was interrupted when Rivka suddenly appeared to change the subject.

"Teleli is no threat to anyone."

The men regarded this statement with evident suspicion, but she plowed on. "It is possible he decided to take Charger and just make a run for it, with all you lawmen arriving. But I think it's more likely he went looking for Heath." She raised a hand to continue when Frank, Jed, and Nick all began to protest.

"Teleli understands. They talked together. _It is a terrible place where Heath is,_ he told me. He said, _Heath will choose to die, if he cannot see a way out._ He wants to help, and I think he can offer Heath some hope, given a chance. Nick – Frank – you know Heath. You know what he's willing to do – what he'll think he **_has_** to do to protect us. But he's injured, his mind is an intolerable mess, and Morgan will crush him. Morgan will crush him," she repeated,"– and Heath knows it."

She broke off and reined herself in with a huge effort. She knew this was no time just for venting her emotions. These men needed to get going. She took a breath and forced herself just to say the words. "I'm afraid Heath will see that as his best option: to go after Morgan and try to do as much damage as possible before Morgan kills him. Heath will aim to make his death count for something.

"John, you and Frank and Nick **_must_** get to Colonel Morgan before Heath does."

Audra gripped Rivka's hand in her own. "Find Morgan," she agreed fiercely in a harsh whisper. John nodded in acknowledgement, his face grim. He suddenly had a mental picture of Rivka and Audra as mounted Valkyries in full battle armor, ready for war. John was feeling pretty damned warlike himself right then, and he saw the same in his companions' eyes when he turned to Nick and Frank.

"Find Morgan. Gentlemen, we have our battle orders. The immediate capture and containment of Colonel Harrison Morgan, by whatever means necessary, is our number one objective. **_If_** we find Heath, we will aim to get him out of harm's way ASAP. Teleli remains a wanted man; his arrest, however, is not currently a priority, and will not be sought at the expense of our primary mission. Are we agreed?"


	68. Chapter 67 - Even a Live Dog

_This is an evil in everything that is done under the sun: There is one fate for everyone. Furthermore, the hearts of men are full of evil and madness while they are alive, and afterward they join the dead._

 _There is hope, however, for anyone who is among the living; for even a live dog is better than a dead lion. For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing._

 _Ecclesiastes 9:3-5_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

Colonel Morgan left an unambiguous trail as he climbed the ridge on his chestnut stallion. He appeared to be heading directly toward a ledge on higher ground that offered both tree cover and a clear firing line down to the clearing.

Heath, out of a sniper's habit, had earlier identified the spot in his reconnaissance, and had added it to his mental map of the area as an excellent shooting position. Increasingly certain that the ledge was Morgan's destination, Heath trailed him on a parallel path, keeping his quarry in sight only intermittently.

Heath was struggling, there was no denying it. The loose following distance he maintained was necessary in part because he was so lame, beat up and cold - and so unhinged in his mind - that stealth seemed near impossible. Pushing him forward with increasing urgency, however, was this: if Morgan was heading to that ledge with a long-range sniper rifle, his primary target wasn't Heath. It was the men and women down in the clearing. Heath had to get to him before he sent those terrible bullets shrieking after the lives of his loved ones.

Painfully, with only his right arm functioning fully, Heath dragged himself up onto a shelf of rock behind and above the ledge. His choice of weapons was pitifully slim. He had plentiful sticks and stones, he had a decent knife stashed in his boot, and he had some lengths of rawhide that might serve as a garrote in a pinch. He stayed low and inched forward, his eyes on the tethered, steaming stallion; beyond, obscured by tree limbs, he could see the hunkered down shape of the dark blue cloak, and the gleam of the polished Whitworth barrel. Morgan was already in position. There was no time to try to draw closer under cover; he'd have to engage him some other way -

 _Heath, run -! **Heath** -! _

He froze, breathless, his eyes squeezed shut. He dropped his forehead to the icy ground and moaned through gritted teeth. _Mama, **stop** , please – please, Mama – I can't do this. Not now. I have to - _

_Screaming._

 _I have to stop him. I have to do something –-_ His hand came up to grip the side of his head in a futile attempt to keep the terrible sound away.

 _We've all heard about you, **Miss** Thomson. This ain't your first rodeo – that pup of yours runnin' wild around town is proof of that. Why you kickin' up such a fuss?_

He was nauseated; his mind was suddenly battered with disconnected memories that flared up loud, blinding, and vivid, and just as quickly disappeared. The furniture, the windows were broken; Rachael and Hannah were weeping over his mother's bruised body; he wanted to die, but he just kept suffocating and suffocating.

 _I have to do something. I have to be able to **think** , God, please – just – I'll go away. I promise I will, just let me –_

 _We can do this forever, Yankee boy._

Heath flinched away, choking back a sob. He could _feel_ Linceul's hands in his hair, could see him clear as day no matter how tightly he closed his eyes.

 _No. You're dead, you're gone, you're not here -_

The prison commander leaned in close and smiled fondly as he tied a blindfold over Heath's eyes. _You will fail them, your loved ones. You know you will. **They** know you will. And so you are left to me. Mine. _

"Shut **_up_** ," Heath gritted out, grimacing as he pushed himself up from the ground. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he could barely breathe. "No. No. **_No_** , dammit. I **_won't_**. I won't – stay – **_down_**."

Heath forced himself to move in spite of the howling, paralyzing, incoherent noise in his head. He gathered himself to descend the steep, rocky grade to make an open attack; even if Morgan simply turned and gunned Heath down, at the very least that would reveal Morgan's presence and position to the marshals below.

He paused for just a breath or two to steady his balance as he straightened up. He had never stopped to wonder why Morgan had taken no measures to camouflage his objective on this chase. Heath had just a glimpse of swift movement descending from the tree branches above and behind him. Then a pair of boots slammed into his back with the force of a mule, and sent him headlong down the grade.

* * *

 ** _City Hotel, South Washington St., Sonora, CA, December 3, 1874_**

Phil Archer looked around him in amazement as he navigated his way into the unusually crowded lobby of the City Hotel. He recognized a few young attorneys he knew were working their way up as assistant prosecutors in Sacramento, and he was certain he'd never seen so many marshals and local lawmen gathered in one place. He scanned the room, looking for the man who had so urgently summoned him here.

"Phil!" He turned to see Jarrod Barkley waving at him from the door of the hotel dining room. He hurried over, taking Jarrod's outstretched hand in greeting and shaking his head over his colleague's harried appearance.

"Jarrod. I came as fast as I could. You look like you could use a bath, a shave, and a long nap. Do you really have Martin Peale locked up in the Sonora jail? I heard rumors, but then Madden swore it was true."

"It's true, Phil, believe me, and that's only the tip of the iceberg. I really need your help. These young city lawyers don't seem to have any common sense. Seems they can't find their way through a case unless it's all laid out for them with the appropriate paperwork. You, on the other hand, are going to **_love_** the mountain of evidence we have. There's a vast web of corruption and conspiracy here to sort out, if you'll pardon the cliché, with all the ugly details you could imagine. This is right up your alley."

"Really?" Archer couldn't quite hide the eager, combative interest this scenario provoked in him. It sounded too good to be true. "What's the catch, Jarrod?"

"No catch, Phil. This goes all the way up to the Governor's office, once we trace out all the information. _That_ piece, Phil, is my only condition. That one is mine. I'm going to need it."

Archer nodded his acceptance. Jarrod could see the wheels turning in the attorney's head: he was already planning and organizing; he was envisioning in his mind the interconnected linear tracks of accusation that he would methodically fill in with evidence, tracks that would lead from one defendant to the next. Yes, this was the perfect case for Archer. He lived for his work, he had an insatiable appetite for details, and few things fired up his prosecutorial fervor more than the pursuit of corrupt public servants. He was already loosening his tie and looking over Jarrod's shoulder at the workspace they had created in the hotel dining room.

"Is that your _mother_ , Jarrod?" he said in surprise.

"Yup. And there are a few other people here I want to introduce you to. But listen, Phil, there's one more thing." He put a hand on his arm. "I'm going to get you started, and you'll have help. But then I have to go."

"Go?"

"Yes. My brother – Heath – he's in trouble. I'm sure of it. I won't be much good here until I know he's OK. I have to go." Archer's surprise turned quickly to concern when he saw the frank distress in Jarrod's eyes. Jarrod went on quickly, "My mother has proxy, of course, to handle all of our family legal affairs here. Believe me, there are plenty. I had to make some unusual, um, transactions in order to resolve an urgent situation here, and she'll be sorting that out. It's – well, it's complicated. I'll fill you in later. I want you to meet US Deputy Marshal Roberts, out of Nevada, and maybe you know Marshal Raul Montana. And these two are Sean and Roman Thomas, new recruits. C'mon in and let's get you up to speed."

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, December 3, 1874_**

"Hannah? Hannah, that's plenty clean. If you keep polishing that spoon, it might just melt away to nothing."

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Silas." She looked down at the piece of silverware in her hand, then back out the window.

"What is it, Hannah -?" Her disquiet was obvious. It had only been intensifying as she had tried to distract herself by helping Silas with his chores. Hannah had appeared at the back porch early in the morning, though he suspected she had been out walking since before sunup. She had made an effort to joke about how he needed help keeping up, since he was doing both Victoria's tasks and his own, and offered to give him a hand. He had welcomed the company, as he was feeling plenty unsettled himself.

She shook her head, and looked at him, her eyes wide with worry and unshed tears. "I wish I knew. I just have a bad, bad feeling."

"Come on into the parlor, Hannah. Sit yourself down by the fire and I'll make us some tea."

She was not relaxing in an armchair when Silas returned with a teapot and two cups. This did not surprise him; she had been restless and preoccupied all day. She was standing in front of one of the bookshelves, studying a memento that had been sitting in that same spot for almost a decade. Silas was willing to bet he was the only person in the house that had touched or looked at it in years, and that only because he routinely dusted in this room. He _was_ surprised by what she said next, though, and the emotion he could hear in her voice.

"What is this, Silas? I mean, I know it's a belt buckle, but whose is it? Why is it here – where did it come from?"

Silas placed his tray down and hurried to her side to look at the heavy, slightly tarnished belt buckle she held in her hand. It was silver, and decorated with a bold sunburst-and-mountains background behind a bas relief of a city bridging a broad river delta. Below was engraved, " _Stockton, CA, 1851_ ".

"That belonged to Mr. Tom Barkley. It was made special for him as a thank you gift from Mr. Charles Weber, the man who founded the city of Stockton."

"Made special for him? There isn't another one like it? You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Mr. Weber made a big fuss about it when he come to visit, I remember that. Mr. Barkley wore it all the time, right up until when he died. He was proud of that gift." He turned to face Hannah, who was still staring at the buckle, lost in thought. " ** _Hannah_** ," he said with sudden authority. "You come sit down with me right now and tell me what's on your mind. Right now. Right this minute."

She looked up in surprise, then smiled at his stern expression. "There's a story I've been meaning to tell you, Silas, about what happened after Heath and I got back home from Sutamasina. I hadn't done, yet, because I didn't know in my own mind what to do with it, but I – I have an awful feeling it's killing my boy up there in the mountains," Hannah confessed with a catch in her voice. She felt suddenly short of breath now that she'd spoken some of her fear out loud. She anxiously studied Silas' kind, serious face and realized she felt both relieved and blessed to be able to share her thoughts with him. "I still don't know what to do. But I think I just saw another piece of the story."

She prayed they could see a way forward that would bring her boy home safe, and she hoped what she remembered might also help the rest of the family to heal. Silas took her arm gently. She let him shepherd her back to the fireside armchair, and the two of them drank his excellent tea and talked for the rest of the day.


	69. Chapter 68 - Echo

_Come to me in the silence of the night;_

 _Come in the speaking silence of a dream;_

 _Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright_

 _As sunlight on a stream;_

 _Come back in tears,_

 _O memory, hope, love of finished years._

 _Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,_

 _Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,_

 _Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;_

 _Where thirsting longing eyes_

 _Watch the slow door_

 _That opening, letting in, lets out no more._

 _Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live_

 _My very life again tho' cold in death:_

 _Come back to me in dreams, that I may give_

 _Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:_

 _Speak low, lean low,_

 _As long ago, my love, how long ago._

 _Christina Rosetti, "Echo"_

* * *

In his 25 years of life, Heath had acquired plenty of experience in hitting the ground hard. He had fallen down mine shafts, had been thrown from innumerable horses, and had been – literally - tossed out into the street from every public establishment in Strawberry, at least once. There was a time, before the war, when he would stow away on supply wagons or mule trains to travel between jobs. He had been thrown off a moving caravan on several occasions. Sometimes it was because he got caught by the drovers, but just as often it was because the full-grown drifters decided they didn't want to share their sleeping space with some skinny kid.

He had even been mule-kicked off a train going full tilt out of Modesto back when he was a deputy marshal, trying to arrest a man who had a lot more buddies on hand than Heath had expected.

Of all of those sources of hard landings, Heath much preferred the horses. The ground might hurt just as much, but with a few rare exceptions, the horse wasn't trying to do him harm. Usually, the horse was just trying to manage a difficult situation, same as him.

Yes, horses were better.

The landscape flashed around him in a blur. Whoever had just kicked him certainly did mean to do him harm, and in the brief seconds before he hit the ground, Heath had time enough to picture just how steep and rocky that grade was, and resign himself to a landing that was going to hurt like hell.

Resigned he might be, but years of experience – and survival – did count for something. Instinctively he tucked up and protected his head as best he could, in the hopes that he might roll over some of the bone-breaking terrain below, rather than just shatter upon it like a dinner plate. In this, the sheer force of the kick that had sent him over the edge perhaps helped, because it propelled him beyond the jutting serrations of the near-vertical slope. He hit the ground - plenty hard - near the bottom of the grade.

He still hadn't yet been able to bend his left arm. His elbow throbbed and felt as though it was full of loose rocks, the joint just wouldn't move, and in his sudden descent, he couldn't really get it properly out of harm's way. The impact with the ground forcibly twisted and bent the arm double under his body with an audible, palpable _crack._ He tumbled to a halt over a flat stretch of deep snow that did nothing to cushion his fall.

Amidst the bruising storm of pain that accompanied his crash-and-roll over rocks and deadfall, the agony of that **_crack_** blasted like a bolt of lightning from his fingertips right through his skull. It lit the universe on fire and shook him to the core. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, leaving Heath stunned and voiceless, staring dumbly at the sky.

The chestnut stallion stood tethered not far away. Heath could smell the horse's sweat and the snow-damp wool of the saddle blanket. The drowsy animal startled as Heath crashed to a stop in a spray of snow and gravel. He blew and stomped a foot, mildly alarmed. The fallen man was no longer moving, however, and no other bodies were falling from the rocks. The stallion shifted his weight to his other hip and dozed off again.

Heath lay still. _That's a nice-looking horse,_ was the first coherent group of words that drifted through his mind. Then: _I'm breathing. I'm not dead. I can move both my arms, how did that happen? Where's Morgan, and who the hell…?_

He raised an unsteady hand to wipe snow from his eyes. A shadowed figure was walking toward him from the outcropping from which he had fallen. Still dazed and sluggish, Heath tried unsuccessfully to sit up, then fell back with a groan. Pain enshrouded him like a slow, roiling cloud with no clear beginning or end. It had weight, though, yes indeed. It was leaden, unyielding. He watched helplessly as the shadow came to stand over him.

"I think you fixed my arm," Heath managed to say. His face was bruised and numb and frozen, and the words came out sounding just as blurry as his thoughts. "How did you —?"

He went silent as a whispering flash of silver arced with cold beauty across his field of vision. The chill, razor-sharp blade of a cavalry sabre came lightly to rest against his neck. It stroked upward to the line of his jaw, gentle as a caress.

 _Keep still._ He swallowed, and could feel the gallop of his heart under his skin, the pulse pounding an inarticulate protest against icy metal. _Keep still._

He reached blindly into that stillness for some hope, or just a little more strength. Once, more than once, he'd found it there. He'd listened and heard Hannah singing, heard Rivka calling him back to himself, heard his own strength humming like a river. _Keep still:_ it echoed now in an empty place and came back to him changed, bearing bad news. _Nothing here worth keeping._

There was a blackness in those words; a wrongness from which his very soul seemed to recoil.

 _Hannah…?_

 _Hannah, where am I -_

The blade pressed upward now, demanding his attention with a steady insistence. It drew a thin line of blood as Colonel Morgan deliberately tipped back Heath's head to study his face.

"Wouldn't have thought you'd be fooled so easily by a decoy, Thomson, but I suppose you're not really at the top of your game right now."

Heath stared up at Morgan, watching his eyes. "Guess not." He tried to keep his response impassive, but his voice was barely a whisper, and he was too lost and too exhausted to hide his feelings. Defeat, rage, shame, fear, sadness: it was all there in his face, feeding the man who stood over him.

"Captain Welker would be disappointed with the stray dog he trained so well - if he were alive to see it, that is." Morgan smiled at the wince of pain this provoked. Heath didn't answer. Shaking his head in amusement, Morgan stepped over Heath and into the trees to retrieve his cloak and the long rifle.

The clouds moved swiftly overhead, racing across the shifting patch of sky Heath could see beyond the trees. _I'm alive_ , he thought vaguely. He made another painful attempt to move, with slightly more success, but was brought up short by the bite of the sabre once again at his neck, and a polished boot on his chest. In the hush of the forest, the creak of the expensive leather was to Heath almost painfully loud. He grimaced as Morgan leaned in with his weight, pressing him back into the rocky ground.

"Maybe I'll pick off your family down there, one by one, while you watch, Thomson. I'll start with Smith, perhaps? Or Audra? Or Nick? Or that Jewish girl Peale told me about. Yes…and then –" He knelt down close to whisper in Heath's ear. "Then, I think, maybe – maybe I'll leave you alive. Could you live with that, Thomson? The backwoods mongrel who brought death down upon all those good people that took him in? Or would you have to put a bullet in your head?"

Heath fought against the overpowering despair that image provoked. He wanted to scream, though whether to beg or threaten, he didn't know. Reflexively, uselessly, he fought to rise. The sabre responded smartly to the turn of Morgan's wrist. A trickle of blood began to soak the collar of his shirt.

 _He's bluffing._

This idea stomped into his thoughts with all the subtlety and manners of his brother Nick bossing a cattle drive, taking him by surprise and bringing his futile, animalistic struggle to an abrupt halt. _Bluffing?_

The long rifle was slung over Morgan's shoulder. The sabre dangled comfortably in his hand, deceptively casual and straying not at all from the killing zone of Heath's throat. Terminal as his situation seemed, Heath could not help but notice this: the blade was Morgan's personal weapon of choice. The rifle, the ledge – it was staging, all part of his deception.

A voice Heath knew well came booming up the mountainside right then.

" ** _HEATH! Heath_** , **_goddammit_** , WHERE **_ARE_** YOU? You get your sorry hide down here right **_now_** , boy. **RIGHT NOW**. **_HEATH -!_** "

Before the sound had faded, Morgan had dropped a knee to Heath's throat, choking off his breath along with any response he might have made. "Stay quiet, or I'll have to gag you," he said, conversationally. He shifted the strap of the rifle and checked that it was loaded. "What loyal friends you have down there. Too bad they've been burdened with you, Thomson. They would've been much better off without you, don't you think?"

 _Yes, God help me, I do. Those loyal, good people would be better off without me, and **much** better off without you and all the other monsters like you that I've brought into their lives. And certainly better off without this junkyard mess of nightmares that seems to be all that's left of my mind. _

"Oh, for God's sake, Morgan. Quit this nonsense and get it over with."

Morgan gaped in surprise, just for a second, and then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The sabre glinted and hovered like a cobra trying to decide where to bite. Heath couldn't help but follow it with his eyes, flinching ever so slightly every time it moved.

"Explain yourself, Thomson." The point had come down to rest on his sternum. It jabbed him, hard, when he didn't answer right away. It was not a lethal spot, of course, just painful, and bloody. "Explain yourself." It jabbed again, deeper.

Heath hissed in pain as the blade shoved him back and then abruptly withdrew. He watched it as it resumed its hovering, hungry movement. His coat was torn and hanging open, and the warm spread of blood down his chest quickly chilled on his skin. He shivered, his every muscle twitching with the imperative to pull away from that glinting sabre. "Explain myself? You're no sniper, Morgan. You picked that rifle for dramatic effect, but it would be a ridiculous weapon to use in this fight. If you packed in a Winchester, or a Henry, or even a Springfield, you mighta fooled me –"

"I did fool you, Thomson." The blade came seeking in close. Heath tensed as it pushed aside his collar and lifted the now-bloody medicine bag. "What's this? A gift from your Digger friends?" Morgan sliced the bag from around his neck and threw it aside with a flick of the blade's tip.

Before he could stop himself, Heath reacted, anger giving him some momentum in his effort to rise. The blade flashed, and with little more apparent effort than he had used on the beaded bag, Morgan laid Heath open with a deep, diagonal, bloody gash from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Heath fell back to the ground, panting, trying to back away even as he knew it was useless. He was bleeding badly. His shirt was soaked, and the snow all around him was turning red.

 _OK, well, you got what you asked for, Heath. He_ **was** _bluffing. What he wants to do is slice you up and leave you here in pieces for your family to find. So I guess the only question is, just how long is he gonna drag this out?_

Morgan unslung the rifle and threw it aside along with the heavy cloak, wanting to free up his arms. Sabre in hand, he advanced on Heath with the speculative look of a man at a banquet who still has a few questions about the menu and the night's entertainment.

"A ridiculous weapon to use in this fight, Thomson? Why?" he demanded.

Heath had backed up against a rising outcropping of rock. He could go no further, and Morgan was clearly ready to get down to business. The hungry blade had returned to his neck, where it moved and tasted Heath's skin like a venomous lover. Looking down, he realized he was clutching the front of his shirt with both hands in an attempt to slow the bleeding, an effort that now struck him as pointless.

The sabre dug into his jaw and directed his wandering attention back to the colonel's question.

"Ridiculous. **_Why_**." The question was accompanied by a fresh flow of blood that warmed the side of Heath's neck.

"That rifle is muzzle-loaded, Morgan." Heath's exhausted voice emerged ragged and hopeless, but that didn't mask his disdain. "One bullet at a time. That's fine if your target is a long ways off, or can't get to you once they know your position. Do you even know how to reload that thing, Morgan?" Heath chuckled to himself, his head falling back against the cold granite. "I reckon you'd take one shot at that clearing. You'd probably miss. And by the time you figured out how to reload you'd have a bunch-a marshals and my brother Nick comin' down on you like an avalanche. **_Damn_**. Shouldn't-a called your bluff." He laughed again. "Woulda loved to have seen that. Though of course I couldn't take the chance of you actually hitting someone."

The mocking dismissal screamed at Morgan. It was intolerable. Furious, he backhanded Heath with the hilt of the sabre, and then kicked him a few times until he felt the rage recede slightly. Breathing hard, he glared down at Heath. "You are foolish to laugh at me, Thomson. I can make this quick, or I can make it very long and very unpleasant."

"All ends up at the same place, Morgan. Do what you want." Heath got himself back up on his knees and stared at the ground for a few breaths, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him. Something caught his eye, and he cocked his head to the side, a smile on his lips. A complex, beautiful pattern of bright colors seemed to appear and disappear in the snow, creating a mosaic of beadwork and crystalline white that caught and reflected the rays of the westering sun. Reaching out, he picked up the medicine bag. He held it to his lips, and then let his hands fall to his lap.

"You know it occurs to me, Thomson, I've never seen as much abject fear in your eyes as I did when I told you I'd leave you alive. It's intriguing. Almost as if you believe I'd be doing you and your family a favor, killing you."

 _Nothing here worth saving._

 _Wrongness._

 _Run, Heath – run, please -_

 _Why can't I see, Hannah -? I can't see where to go -_

Morgan circled him. The sabre flashed silver at the edge of Heath's vision, but he kept his gaze on the bright, beaded necklace that wove through his fingers.

 _Dark, light, dark – yearning, hope, love, sorrow, and now regret. So much regret. I'm sorry, my love. I let go. I'm so sorry I let go._

 _Something worth saving... maybe, maybe I could be, but now it's too late._

The weapon landed light as a butterfly along his collarbone. The weight of the blade alone drew a bleeding, burning line along its length.

"Intriguing. Very tempting." The sabre lifted, flashed, whispered. "But not tempting enough."


	70. Chapter 69 - Perilous

_Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,  
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,  
And with some sweet oblivious antidote  
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff  
Which weighs upon the heart?  
Therein the patient  
Must minister to himself._

 _William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"_

* * *

 ** _Sonora, California, December 3, 1874_**

Jingo swung his head around and nudged Jarrod's elbow as his cinch was tightened more roughly than was typical. His rider, usually steady and gentle-handed, was rushed and nervous, and even the horse could tell his attention was elsewhere.

"Sorry, Jingo," Jarrod muttered, patting the horse's sturdy neck. He saw his mother approaching from the sidewalk in front of the hotel, hurrying to bring him some food to take on his way. He crossed quickly to meet her and escort her the rest of the way back to where Jingo waited at the livery hitching post.

"Thank you, Mother," he said, kissing her cheek. "Now, don't you worry."

"I'm going to worry until I have all of you safely back home. And so are you," she added, regarding him closely. Victoria realized that without even thinking about it, since the time her eldest was a young boy, she had learned to watch him as a kind of weathervane for the well-being of her family. The signs now were not favorable. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

His worried eyes had been drawn back the mountains, roving as though searching for something. Her question broke his reverie. He hugged her again. "No. I wish there was. But I'd better get going before I lose the light."

Jingo had rested well, and willingly picked up his pace as his rider urged him eastward out of town. Jarrod watched the trail ahead rise up before him. He was certain he could ride directly to Sutamasina, even though so many years had passed; even though it was winter, and he had made that ride in the springtime. Jarrod had a nearly eidetic memory for such things. It served him well as an attorney. Over time he realized that his retention of detail was even more vivid in circumstances of intense emotion; joy, yes, but also horror, or grief, or fear. Such was his memory of Sutamasina.

Jarrod suspected that Heath shared this ability of his, though to what extent, he had never investigated. As he retraced his path to the site of the ancient village, though, he couldn't help but think of what nightmarish memories burdened his half-brother with such exact detail. It occurred to Jarrod that the _going-away_ against which Heath had been struggling so desperately might not so much be a sign of collapse or disintegration; it might in fact be an attempt to heal. Perhaps it was a soul's way of taking shelter from too much remembering and pain.

He sighed, and tightened his coat collar as he gained altitude and the air grew colder. Such insight was all well and good, sure, if he had a chance to use it to help his suffering brother. He kicked Jingo to a gallop as he reached an open stretch of trail. Jarrod didn't know exactly what he would discover when he reached the village, but he was near certain he was going to be too late.

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

The three men were already moving toward their mounts when they heard gunfire: one shot, then two more, coming from somewhere high and slightly to the south of the clearing. Jed responded immediately: in seconds he had his rifle out of his saddle scabbard with a round chambered; he then quietly but quickly shepherded the women and baby out of sight into the shelter while his eyes continuously scanned the terrain above for threats. He gave a thumbs up to the two marshals and Nick, who set out immediately in pursuit.

Nick, Frank, and John quickly picked up Charger's trail on a climbing path, which seemed to support Rivka's belief that Teleli had gone in search of Heath. Moments later, the tracks converged with those of Colonel Morgan, and now the three men rode with focused intent, rifles out and ready. No further gunfire sounded. The fear was unspoken. All three knew that of the men they sought, only Morgan had a firearm.

Nick was riding point, his handgun in his right hand, when he emerged from a densely forested grade onto a more open, flat area. He reined Coco to an abrupt halt, his throat suddenly sour with foreboding. "Dear God," he choked out. He leveled his gun, searching the area for imminent threats.

Frank and John came up beside him, and Nick heard the rough intake of breath as they took in the sight.

"Good God – Nick, did you see anyone?"

"No," he answered quietly. They advanced cautiously toward the ledge, which they could now see gave a clear line of sight to the clearing below. Nick held up a hand, and all three dismounted, understanding that they needed to learn what they could here before riding through with their own tracks.

"What the hell _happened_ here?" Nick was queasy. It looked like a slaughterhouse. He knew almost as well as did the two lawmen that a little bit of blood can go a long way. Sometimes the blood loss wasn't nearly as bad as it looked. He had a childhood memory of his horror when he gave Jarrod a bloody nose by accident. He'd been sure he had killed his big brother, when their clothes and boots and hands and the floor were all red with blood. Nick was pretty sure this _was_ bad, though, and a glance at John and Frank told him they thought so too.

Blood stained the snow deep red in a wide circle. It drew dark swaths of crimson that stretched back the way they came, and forward, reaching up toward the next rising ridge. The chaos of hoof prints suggested a battle of some sort; the spread of blood over the ground suggested bodies dragged, or a wounded man dragging himself; but the ground was too much of a mess to make those distinctions. The whole scene screamed of violence. All they could say for sure was that both horses had continued on ahead, at least one man was badly injured, and none of the men they sought were anywhere in sight.

This time it was John who couldn't contain himself.

" ** _Heath_**! **_Heath, where are you?_** " Breathing hard, he listened, hoping against hope Heath might be nearby, hiding, maybe injured. All three listened, looked, got nothing. Silent, scowling, they gathered themselves to continue the chase.

John growled under his breath, his grip tightening like iron around the stock of his rifle. He glowered at the tracks that rose out of sight up the ridge. He felt as if the crimson spill of blood that surrounded them might drive him mad.

" ** _Morgan_**!" he roared. "I'm coming for **_you_** , Morgan! **_Do you hear me?_** **_I'm. Coming. For. You._** "


	71. Chapter 70 - Stepped In

_For mine own good,_

 _All causes shall give way. I am in blood_

 _Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,_

 _Returning were as tedious as go o'er._

 _It will have blood, they say. Blood will have blood._

 _Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak._

 _William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"_

The three men followed the clear trail of the two horses south and east – and up. By a few hundred yards out, they saw no further blood sign. This gave them some sense of relief, but the path they were following was increasingly a cause for concern.

"Who the hell is chasing who, and where the **_hell_** do they think they're going?" barked Nick for at least the third time. Neither the mountains, nor the thickening snowfall, nor his two companions provided an answer.

John rode point in grim, steely silence. Frank flanked him to the left opposite Nick, muttering his own stream of curses and threats under his breath. Nick's question was on all their minds. They could only continue this chase for so long. Put simply: the rising course they were following in such haste was, in mid-winter, nothing less than suicidal.

Nick would bet the ranch it was Heath steering this mad chase up into the mountains. He pictured the map in his mind, and this run had Heath's handwriting all over it: unhesitatingly, he was tracing a path through the maze of cliffs and rivers and hidden valleys in which he had grown up. They had started out roughly following the north fork of the Tuolumne upstream. Past Pinecrest Lake, they zigged and zagged through obscure ravines, and found themselves now tracking alongside the Stanislaus. Their movement was always east, always up. The air grew colder, the snowfall grew heavier, and treeless, granite, snow covered peaks began to lean in close over the narrowing river valley. Clouds rumbled in, ponderous as sleepy cattle. They obscured the mountaintops, and began to pour down snow and a steady wind on the riders below.

Rumbling.

Frank pulled up hard. "Do you hear that?"

They stopped, peering ahead into the swirling snowstorm. At first, all they heard was the hiss of the wind and the breathing of their laboring horses. But then it came again – a rumble, like distant thunder; _felt_ more than heard, at first; then clearly audible as it grew louder, and closer. The sound was frightening on a deep, almost primordial level, and all three men remained still and breathless until it seemed sure it would come no closer. When Frank spoke again, it was in a whisper just loud enough to be heard over the wind.

"Avalanche."

They looked nervously behind and above them now, though they could discern nothing beyond cloud and snowfall.

"Heath's heading for Sonora Pass," Nick said with grim fatality. "That stubborn, pig-headed, _fool_ of a mountain goat is headed for Sonora Pass."

Neither of the marshals disagreed. There was no way Morgan could have found his way so unerringly from Sutamasina to this now-unrecognizable, snow-buried wagon track that led to the pass. And - so far as they knew - there wasn't anywhere else to go from the massive alpine funnel in which they found themselves. It was either east and up to Sonora Pass – by all evidence impassable right now - or west back down to Pinecrest and Strawberry. Nick was already sure they would have to loop around north on the return trip to stay on the wagon track – in this snowstorm, he didn't think there was any way he could retrace their steps through the shortcut Heath had woven to reach this point.

"Do you think – do you think he got caught in that?" Nick went on, voicing the fear on all their minds. He grew a little louder as his frustration built. "Even if he **_didn't_** , what does he think he's doing? It only gets worse further on up. Way worse. Is he **_trying_** to die? Is he trying to trap Morgan up here to die along with him? It's crazy. **_He's_** crazy."

"I don't get it," said John quietly, breaking his silence for the first time in hours. His stony, lethal expression had given way to one of horrified grief as they confronted the impassable obstacle of the Sierra Nevada in winter. The terrifying roar of the unseen avalanche brought them to a halt and forbid them to go further, and they all three imagined the worst. John's stricken look, however, was shifting to one of puzzlement. "No, I don't think so, not crazy, not like that." He looked at Nick. "He's been out of his mind in so many ways, that's true. But some basic things, important things, they haven't changed. Right?"

"What are you getting at, John?" Frank burst out. "I'm of a mind to just head up after the boy, avalanches be damned."

"Now that _would_ be crazy," John said. "Look, I don't know where he is, or what he's trying to do, but I just can't imagine -" He stopped, looking at Nick and feeling suddenly that was he was thinking would sound utterly foolish.

Nick looked back at him, then, to John's surprise, he shook his head with a laugh. "I think I know what you're going to say. But go ahead."

"I could imagine Heath heading into a deadly situation if he thought that was the only way to stop a bad guy. Right, Frank?"

"Yep. Seen it plenty."

"What I _can't_ imagine is – well, I just can't see him doing that to Charger. Or even Morgan's horse. And certainly not Teleli, unless Teleli was on board with the idea. Nick, am I wrong?"

Nick was laughing again. "No. No, you're not wrong, John." He grew serious. "Problem is, we're looking up a snow-filled chute with 2,000 feet of more snow and granite on either side, just waiting to slide down and crush us. Heath was up ahead of us. Where is he now, if he's not buried under all that? And where's -"

He was silenced by the shaking and roar of another unseen snow-and-rockslide, closer this time, followed by an even more chilling sound – the scream of a terrified, injured horse. Before they had even spurred their mounts forward into the wind-driven icy haze, they heard a horse approaching at a gallop. Morgan's chestnut came barreling out of the grayness, panicked, rider-less, and frothing. His cinch was broken, and as the stallion wheeled about to stay within sight of the men, the saddle slid and fell into the snow. A heartbeat later, the cry of a man reached them, broken up in the wind. Pain, rage, fear, triumph – the cry could have been any of these, and they advanced toward it cautiously.

Nick's lip curled with a desire for vengeance as he regarded Colonel Morgan struggling to free himself from a crush of rocks and snow, the very edge of a far larger slide that he and his horse had managed to avoid. They found him bruised and bleeding, growling in frustration, only his head and his left arm and chest free.

Nick wanted to shoot him where he lay trapped and just leave him there, but he realized that would be a cruel shock for the wagon trains of immigrants that would be pouring over this road come springtime. John and Frank shared similar sentiments, as they gazed down at the raging, incoherent man. John sighed and waved his companions forward to start digging Morgan free.

Morgan truly did seem mad. His face was clearly frostbitten and covered in swaths of black and puffy red. He stared wildly at the three men as they approached. His drooling rant was unintelligible, furious – until his eyes fell on John. It was very, very disturbing, when Nick thought about it afterwards.

"Marshal Smith," Morgan suddenly said, in an icy, lucid hiss. "So glad to see you one last time. I truly wanted another opportunity to express my sentiments to you. Wanted to have just one more meeting of the minds. I did not want to leave this state without wounding you as badly as possible, Marshal. I almost butchered your bastard stepson. I _partially_ butchered him. I guess I can say I did that at least, but I was hoping to leave him in pieces for you back there. Then at least you'd have some souvenirs. Something to bury. Now, well," He gestured with his chin toward the unseen snow-slide and granite cliffs further up toward the pass. "Now you won't even have that. You'll never find his body under all that."

John stiffened, fists clenching at his side.

"Easy, John," Nick murmured, though both he and Frank were staring daggers at Morgan.

John seemed to relax very slightly. "Let's get this snake trussed up and ready to haul back downhill," he muttered, and grabbed Morgan's left arm to pull him out. He staggered and fell back, off-balance, as Morgan's body slid free. Morgan rolled to the snowy ground, then kept rolling, coming back to his feet in a graceful, swift movement that was incongruous with the bestial snarl that distorted his blackened face. He kept moving forward, the lethal arc of metal in his right hand obscured until the last second by the flying spray of snow and ice. The sabre slashed out at John's unprotected neck.

"John -!" Frank and Nick cried out simultaneously, both lunging to restrain Morgan.

The blade, deflected from its killing target, caught John nonetheless, opening a deep gash across his chest. Roaring, powerful in his murderous frenzy, Morgan shook off the two men holding him, kicking Frank away and slashing Nick's chest and arm. He leaped again at John, seeking now to run him through with the sabre.

On pure instinct, John moved in, closing with Morgan rather than backing away in a desperate attempt to mitigate the advantage of the long blade. The force of Morgan's assault drove John back, despite his greater size, and he felt the blade begin to sink into his side with a horrible, burgeoning pain that sucked all the strength from his limbs. He pushed back as Morgan twisted the blade inward, hungrily watching John's agonized face.

Frank lurched back to his feet and drew his sidearm, moving to get a clear shot at Morgan. Nick was doing the same, though his right arm was bleeding briskly. Both men ducked instinctively as an eerie, shrieking whistle came screaming unseen out of the swirling snow. It was the call of a bullet, the song of a death reaper snatching away life in its passage. The lethal cry was still echoing up the valley when Morgan crumpled lifeless to the cold ground.


	72. Chapter 71 - Hail and Farewell

_O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping,  
_ _That were athirst for sleep and no more life  
_ _And no more love, for peace and no more strife!_

 _For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother,  
Take at my hands this garland and farewell.  
Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell,  
And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother._

 _Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Ave Atque Vale"_

* * *

 ** _Sonora Pass, December 3, 1874_**

" ** _John_** …John, _talk_ to me, dammit –" Frank was trying to roll the fallen marshal toward him, his voice and actions all uncharacteristically frantic and shaky. Nick, in short order, had managed to use his teeth to tie his bandana around the gash on his arm and control that bleeding; he then hurried to Frank's side to help move John to a position where they could check his injuries.

John groaned. He was curled on his side, his blood-covered hands pressed over a wound up under his rib cage. It throbbed in time with his pounding pulse and felt as if it were leaking lava out onto the snowy ground. John had pushed back against Morgan's attack right up until the moment he saw the bullet strike and knew Morgan was dead. He fought that blade with everything he had, knowing he couldn't hold him forever – he just needed to hold him off long enough, just long enough for help to come. _Easy math,_ John figured: every inch he could deny Morgan was an inch of steel that _wasn't_ putting a hole in him.

 _He might not have skewered me like he wanted, but –_ "Jeez, Frank, easy, easy – _damn_ , this hurts – quit yankin' on me, y'old grizzly. I'm -"

"Shut up and let me look at you, John, and don't you dare say you're fine."

John grimaced and struggled to regulate his breathing through clenched teeth as Frank pulled open his coat and shirt. "I'm not fine, I never said I was fine – but I can ride, just bandage that thing and lemme up –" His orders abruptly choked off with a gasp of pain, as Frank balled up his scarf and pressed it emphatically down onto the bleeding hole in the marshal's left side.

Nick couldn't help but laugh, even amidst the carnage and mayhem that seemed to be all around them. John scowled up at him suspiciously.

"What," he demanded weakly, "is so funny?"

"Oh, just thinkin' you're gonna fit in with this family just fine. Doc Merar's gonna love _you_ , I bet." He started laughing again. "Can't wait to see you and him start buttin' heads. And of course –" Nick paused here to make sure he had John's complete attention. "- you'll have my _mother_ to contend with." His smile broadened as he saw John's eyes grow wide in thoughtful apprehension.

Frank, for his part, felt himself calming down from his panicked certainty that his old friend was mortally wounded. He could even chuckle a bit over John's expression. The injuries and the ongoing blood loss were plenty serious, but Frank was pretty sure he could staunch the bleeding and get John wrapped up enough to get down off the mountain. "Nick, I think I can handle bandaging up this cranky old man myself for the moment. Do you see your brother? Musta been him fired that shot, right?"

"Yeah, had to be. It had to be – but that was a Whitworth. I'd know that sound anywhere." Nick shuddered. He had his own grim memories of those Reb sniper rifles. "Where would Heath have gotten that? Came from over there –" He gestured at the south side of the narrow valley that led up to Sonora Pass. "Damned if I know how he would've been able to get over there without being crushed by the avalanche or swamped in the deep snow – and there's no way anyone could cross over now." Frustrated, Nick stared south, and then turned north to face his companions. His eye fell on the body of Harrison Morgan.

The dead man was lying face up, a rabid rictus distorting his features. A halo of crimson surrounded his head where it lay on the snow. Nick found himself wondering where the entrance wound of the bullet might be. Using the toe of his boot, Nick rolled Morgan over. He grunted in surprise.

"What is it?" John asked, ignoring Frank's orders for him to hush up and lay still.

"Looks like the bullet went in his mouth and out the back of his head," Nick commented.

 _Just like that rabid dog Heath put down,_ John thought. **_Just_** _like._

"How could Heath see over here to make a shot like that, anyway?"

"He told me once he could pick off a stationary target in total darkness or dense fog, so long as he saw it once." He broke off with a yelp of pain as Frank tightened the scarf he was wrapping around John's torso. "Jeez – Frank -" he gasped, and then went on, sounding slightly breathless. "A _stationary_ target. Morgan was anything but stationary, Nick. I have no idea."

"Neither do I," Nick muttered, kneeling down. "What's this?" Moving Morgan's arm, Nick could see a splintered shaft of wood protruding from his right lower chest. "Looks like the shaft of an arrow. Half buried in him, and half broken off." The sight was far less gory than what they had witnessed already that day, but it made Nick queasy nonetheless. "This man was a **_demon_** , if you ask me. I'm guessing Teleli shot him with an arrow. Knocked Morgan down enough Teleli and Heath could get away. But this monster of a man -" He shuddered again at the image that came to him: a man so driven by hate that he'd simply break off the shaft of an arrow and continue on in a suicidal, homicidal pursuit of his intended victims.

John and Frank followed Nick's gaze, wholly sharing his sense of revulsion. " _Demon_ is right, son," Frank said soberly. He turned his attention back to John, who was struggling to sit up. "OK, OK, old man, _easy_ , let me help you at least. One step at a time. Just sit up and lean on me for a minute."

John did lean on Frank, for a few minutes, and was very glad for the help. He could feel the outside cold pushing its way under his skin, into his bones, seeking to join forces with the block of ice that seemed to have formed inside of him. His head swam, and he wondered confusedly if the blood he had lost had left empty spaces that were filling up with snowmelt. He shivered convulsively. Frank looked into his pale face with concern. "I'm…f-freezing, Frank," John stated, concentrating fiercely to get the words to come out clearly.

"You're right about that, boss. Nick, we gotta get him down off this mountain. I hope to hell he can stay in the saddle."

Nick retrieved the horses and threw Morgan's body over the back of his chestnut. Then he turned his attention to John and Frank, who were testing out John's insistence that he could ride his horse on his own. Nick shook his head. "You might be able to sit the horse, John. **_Maybe_**. But someone's gonna have to ride with you. You're gonna fall off otherwise."

They got John up on Scout with Frank steadying him from behind, though by then John was bent over with his arms wrapped around his waist, panting through his teeth. He shook his head silently when Frank asked him if he felt any return of bleeding. Frank sighed, and cast his eye once more to the south, over the valley. "Alright. It ain't an ambulance, but it's the fastest way to get you home, John. We'd best get a move on."

Nick climbed up on Coco and gathered up the lead lines for the two other horses. He too stopped to study the mist- and snow-filled valley once more, hoping for a sight of his brother. He dearly wanted to holler for him, but the looming peaks above them put him in too much fear of triggering another avalanche. Just as he was turning away, there came a thinning of the snowfall; a slight break in the dense cloud cover; a hint of sun filtering through.

"I see him -"

It was just a glimpse, a moving shadow, ghost-like: two men, one horse, looking back from the far side of an impassable valley. _They are watching us._ Nick was certain of that. He imagined they were watching to see that the monster had been silenced; and that all three men were turning back together and would bring John to safety.

 _I can't follow you, Heath – and you can't come back over, to me, to us. You can't take this trail with us…_

 _So come a different way, then, Heath. Find another path. Just find your way back home._

 _What was it Haja said?_

 _"It is amazing that he came to you, in the end, isn't it? Even though you left him behind that day. You did not know Me'weh was yours, then. And still he survived. He came to you by a different road, one with different trials, and different treasures. Truly you must belong to each other."_


	73. Chapter 72 - Foolish and Stubborn

_Now does he feel  
His secret murders sticking on his hands;  
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;  
Those he commands move only in command,  
Nothing in love: now does he feel his title  
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe  
Upon a dwarfish thief._

 _William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"_

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, earlier, December 3, 1874_**

 _"You know, it occurs to me, Thomson, I've never seen as much abject fear in your eyes as I did when I told you I'd leave you alive. It is intriguing. Almost as if you believe I'd be doing you and your family a favor, killing you."_

Morgan's voice rose and fell in casual, speculative tones as he circled, studying Heath at his leisure. He cast his eye from time to time down into the clearing to confirm the marshals had not yet resumed their pursuit. The violence of his words and the glinting edge of his sword hovered avidly around the man kneeling in the snow, sniffing and biting like a scavenger testing out just how dead its quarry might be.

A sudden bout of shivering took Heath by surprise; it pulled a low, agonized moan from somewhere deep in his body; it rattled loose bolts of pain and reignited the fire in the deep, bleeding gash the sabre had drawn across his chest. He became aware of the gentle, velvet caress of his blood flowing over his skin. That warm life, draining from him, cooled and stiffened into uselessness as it soaked into his ruined shirt.

 _Wasted. Useless._

 _No use crying over spilled blood, is there?_

Without conscious thought, obeying a mute imperative of survival, Heath grasped the edges of his torn winter coat and pressed the bloodstained shearling tight against the bleeding and the icy chill. His body sought to keep the life inside, even as his slow, cold, hopeless mind turned drifting away.

 _The snarling grimace of the rabid dog was frozen in death. The wet froth, that foaming stigma of the animal's fatal contagion, had dried on the ground and crusted on the ragged fur of his muzzle. Heath could see the shaft of his arrow protruding from the dog's mouth, the killing tip buried out of sight in the dog's brain._

 _The eyes were already empty, dull, and clouding over._

Empty _, Heath thought, studying the dead dog._ Empty and still. _The dog had been a blur of tormented movement not moments before, mindlessly attacking the outward reflections of his own incurable disintegration. Now he was still and empty. The dog was free. His death mask grimaced at Heath like a mirror._

 _Free, Heath? Or just dead?_

 _Useless, wasted, incurable. What difference does it make, free or just dead?_ Just dead _is better than – better than **this**. Better than whatever **I** am. _

_Incurable? Useless? Says **who** , Heath?_

 _What, am I on the witness stand now, Jarrod? You want a verdict? You want a confession? Let me save you the trouble. It's been **months** – six months I been nothing but trouble for you an' everyone else, been no damn use to anyone. Six months it just keeps getting worse, and no reason to think it'll ever get any better. What's it gonna take to – to convince you -_

Heath raised his head, frowning in puzzlement – then alarm. He glanced around anxiously, fighting down a fresh wave of panic at this latest evidence of his madness.

 _The Devil is a liar, Heath._

 _Jarrod - -?_

Heath flinched and bit back a curse as the sabre arced down and slid smoothly along his collarbone. It just as quickly flew away again, leaving a shallow, burning rent in his skin. The blade floated and danced around him; it darted in to claw at him whenever his attention wandered. The blade was jealous. Heath followed it with his eyes, and looked past it to see Morgan smiling down at him. Morgan wanted Heath's full attention, and he intended to have it before they were through.

"You want me to get this over with, do you, Thomson?" he asked pleasantly. Still circling, the colonel moved in and out of Heath's line of sight. Without warning, Morgan came in close behind him; his left hand wrapped vise-like around Heath's throat; the sabre in his right hand descended to rest menacingly across Heath's arms, the razor-edged threat as effective as a set of iron shackles. Pressing as he was against his back, Morgan was pleasantly aware of the cold and fatigue and pain he could sense in the shivering muscles. He gripped Heath's chin painfully and pulled his head back against his shoulder so he could whisper in his ear.

"Intriguing. Tempting to let you live. But not tempting enough."

He laughed softly. "Oh, it's clear enough you came up here to make a sacrifice of yourself. I was watching you, boy, down there in the tent. You're pretty far gone. Growing up a stray dog in that rat hole of a town, then the war, then Carterson - that was bad enough. But then that mess of yours in Nevada?" Morgan marveled. "Just terrible. It's no wonder you're insane. I've seen plenty of men like you – Indians, slaves, soldiers - and I don't think I've ever seen a man come back from where you are." Morgan tightened his grip as he felt Heath start to struggle, nodding in satisfaction as he saw the fight rising up in his prisoner's eyes. " ** _You_** think you're done. **_I_** think you ought to be done. But you just won't stay down. You got an eye on the prize, still. You're a survivor. And like your father, you are _driven_ to protect, to rescue. I swear, I thought sometimes Tom Barkley would rise up out of the grave to protect his own. You're just like him that way - you can't help it."

His tone grew mocking and sarcastic, tinged with a well-disguised jealousy. "You survived. You finally found out who your father was. You presented yourself to his family, and apparently convinced them – at first – that you were sane. And so - here you are now. You grew up to become the Barkley's mongrel guard dog, and they're all just so **_fond_** of you.

"They must know pretty well by now you're a mad dog, Thomson. One would think they'd have cut you loose, once that became clear. It isn't possible to domesticate a rabid creature like you, even if one had the incredibly poor judgement to try in the first place. But the Barkleys are stubborn and foolish that way, Tom just as much as the rest of them." Morgan chuckled at the flare of anger this comment provoked. He was finding this conversation so tragically ironic. His fingers dug into Heath's throat. Under the cold skin he could feel the thrumming pulse, and the harsh stridor of his breath.

"Well - in light of all this," he went on, "I'll tell you something I didn't share with you before, something that might possibly bring comfort to your Barkley family - though you'll never be able to tell them about it. I will admit, too, I am hoping this will make you regret your decision to throw yourself on my sword. We shall see.

"Tom came looking for me, the day after you and I met that first time. He rode all the way out to the barracks. I found him in the stables, waiting to ask me about you. I will never forget it. All that talk about skeletons in the closet; all his anxious, practical self-protection; after all that, he came to me with an expression of such remorse and hope and yearning on his face, I knew right then I had to shut him down. I had to get rid of you. Tom Barkley was stubborn, and foolish, and once that idea took hold - if he knew or believed you were his son - well, Thomson, it was clear to me he would risk his own ruin if that's what he had to do to make it right with you.

"I was sympathetic. I was such an understanding, admiring friend. I praised his sense of responsibility, and I told him how much it saddened me to disappoint him. That rider he saw yesterday, I said, couldn't _possibly_ be his son. I told him you were sixteen; that you were born in Virginia; that your daddy was a miner and had died in a cave-in years ago; and that you were looking out for your mother and all your brothers and sisters.

"He was bereft, though why it hit him so hard I have no idea. Truly it was sad to see. _He who hesitates is lost,_ he said. _Wishful thinking, I guess, Harrison._ And then he left."

Morgan stood abruptly and pushed himself away from Heath, as the anger he had felt that day came roaring full force back to him. Heath watched him with a distant feeling of surprise. He could barely focus enough to grasp what Morgan was telling him about his father. He certainly had no clear understanding of the colonel's sudden fury, and so he just watched Morgan pace with his sword hand clenched white-knuckled on the spiral hilt of the sabre. Heath considered that at any moment, that blade might leap for his throat, and this would all be over.

"That remorse, that yearning," Morgan muttered. "Exactly the look I had prayed I would see one day on my own father's face."

 _Prayed for, yes,_ Morgan fumed, _right up until my twelfth birthday. The day the news came that Captain Robert Harrison Morgan was lost at sea. The Captain never gave the slightest hint of remorse, or apology, or yearning of any kind. He beat my mother to death. He despised me for years as a reminder of her, and then he drowned. Yes, I felt rage when I saw that look on Tom Barkley's face. His **wishful thinking** \- for a misbegotten mining camp mongrel - was more than I ever had from my own father. I made my rank as a soldier on my own, no help from the Captain there either, while this no-name bastard had the great Marshal John Smith fight for him in front of a military tribunal. Even when the stray dog had clearly gone to pieces at my feet, Smith claimed him as his son. As his **son**! _

"I knew then I had to crush you, Thomson, get you clean out of his sight." Morgan hissed the words as if his blood were truly boiling. "Tom Barkley himself made that clear. Of course, the time came some years later when we had to crush him too. Just like you – just like your Marshal Smith, for that matter – Tom had a habit of getting in the way, and he decided to rescue his lowly neighbors from the inevitabilities of the railroad. But that's another story."

 _He came back? Looking for me?_ Heath wondered if Morgan was speaking the truth. If true, it would be a comfort to Tom's family, he could see that, and it seemed plausible. Tom Barkley was an imperfect human being, but he was a man with a conscience. Heath had never really doubted that, not for long, anyway.

"I'm sorry about your father, Morgan," Heath offered. Sorry for what, he didn't know, but Heath imagined it was something heartbreaking for it to have twisted such distortions in the man's soul.

"Don't waste your breath, Thomson," Morgan sneered.

Unsurprised, Heath struggled to concentrate and understand what else he had heard - the suggestion that Morgan was somehow responsible for Tom Barkley's assassination. It was painful for Heath to think he would never have the chance to let the family know any of this. He wanted very much to give the Barkleys some peace after all the pain he had caused them. He considered the possibility that Morgan was lying just to make Heath feel helpless. Still, it had a ring of truth. Morgan could certainly have had dealings with the railroad tycoons, and could have turned on a former ally when Tom Barkley became an obstacle.

 _I'll admit, too, I am hoping this will make you regret your decision to throw yourself on my sword._

Heath thought about this, turned it over in his exhausted, foggy mind, and decided that, _No_ , this theoretical acceptance by his father did not make him any more regretful than he already was.

He had regrets, certainly. He had so many, he felt he was drowning in them. John had believed in him; John had stood up for him, and called him son, and Heath had failed him on all counts. He had brought evil down on his mother, Hannah, and Rachael; he had failed, so many times, to protect them. He had dragged the whole Barkley family into his mess in Nevada, and burdened them with worry and pain and danger ever since. He had promised Rivka that he would build her a home and stand beside her; he had promised her he would be honest, but he found himself unequal to his promise, and to the gift of her hand she had given him.

He had lost sight of a life worth living. His sense of direction steadily failed him until he stopped where he was, lost and blind. That was his defeat; he couldn't see where to go, and it was a failure so massive he conceived no possible forgiveness, no redemption. He looked back at all the faith and love they had offered him, but like that rabid, diseased dog, he couldn't hold on to himself long enough anymore to take it in or offer anything back. Hopeless, he fell; falling, he wounded the ones he loved, again and again; all he did was cause them pain, and he wished for an end.

 _Heath – run, please run -_

 _I can't run, Mama. I can't leave you, I can't save you, and I can't save myself. It's my fault those monsters came for you, and it's my fault they came back – I should've just been gone, I should go, I should just go -_

"I do, Morgan," he said distantly. "I do want you to get this over with."

 _They came back. They came back -?_

Memories and images pressed in on him, and this time, he just let them come. He was about to die under the sword, and he no longer had the will or the strength to control what rampaged through his mind. The remembering was fragmented still, but less chaotic; it remained visually indistinct but the tactile memories moved through his body with hallucinatory intensity. He could _feel_ the smooth warm wood of a knife's hilt in his hand; his desperate struggle against unseen men; the press of wool on his face, as his own bed became the pit in which he suffocated and died. His mother's lips were salty with blood and tears. He could taste them; he could feel his chest rise as she breathed her breath into him. Her hands stroked his hair and his face so gently.

 _Oh, my brave boy, my brave little lion, please come back to me, please –_

Kneeling there, clutching his coat to his chest and waiting for death, Heath abruptly lifted his head with a quiet intake of breath. Eyes wide, he stared into nothing but what he could see in his mind.

 _Malila, falling. Himself, jumping out into nothing._

 _"You let go, Heath. Why did you let me go -?"_

 _It wasn't Malila. It was **him** , age 10. Heath could see himself in absolute detail, even though, to his knowledge, he never saw himself in a mirror, ever, at that age. So young. So small. His ten-year-old self stared back at him, his blue eyes wide, afraid, and trying so hard to be brave. Trying so hard to see **him** , Heath, the man he might become if he got the chance to grow up. But instead, he fell, out of Heath's hands, out of his reach, down into a dark, dark well, alone. _

"No." Heath felt the refusal grow in his chest like a physical force. He straightened up.

" _No_ , Thomson? I think it's a bit late for that. Your friends will be on the move soon, and so must I be."

Heath lifted his head as the sabre slashed toward him. He might die, right here and now, but he would not go down without a fight, and he would not leave that child down there alone. He met the blade with the knife from his boot, locking them hilt to hilt for a moment as their eyes met.

Surprised and angry, Morgan found himself glaring into blue eyes full of weary understanding and resolution. There was no doubt in either man's mind how this would end: Morgan was healthy, strong and uninjured, and from the moment of that first parry he could feel Heath's weakened muscles giving way before him. A part of him wished he could take the time to draw out this battle and enjoy himself - but not at the risk of being caught up by the marshals.

"Time to finish this, Thomson," he growled, disengaging and immediately slashing again at the throat, this time in a reverse attack from his left.

The blade of the boot knife once more succeeded in deflecting the sabre up and away. The knife blade flashed and reversed direction, descending to lay open Morgan's sword arm below the elbow. Heath fell back and tried to scramble to his feet. Swearing, Morgan recovered his balance and advanced in a fury on his retreating foe.

He came on at a run, intending to dispatch his prey in the viciously aggressive, lethal, slashing attack for which the sabre was designed. Heath knew Morgan's skill and strength. He watched him come as he staggered to his feet; he raised his chin and braced himself to meet an overwhelming force. Morgan's assault broke over him like an ocean wave. Heath stumbled back and fell almost immediately. Beaten once again to the ground and losing strength by the second, Heath tried to get his arms back up in defense. He saw the sabre as a dark arc against the sky, poised in stillness for that one breath before it would strike him dead. He felt a drumming in his bones that seemed to rise up into him from the mountain itself.

In the next second, the sabre vanished and Morgan crumpled to the ground with a grunt of pain. Lifting his head, to his right Heath could see the shaft of an arrow protruding from Morgan's chest; he was now trying to crawl away, coughing blood and wheezing audibly. Looking left, he found Charger's nose an inch from his own. The big bay blew a cloud of vapor around his head and nibbled Heath's hair in happy greeting, then began nudging him emphatically to get up and get moving.

Heath saw the horse, he saw Morgan down with an arrow, and he saw no one else.

"Charger -?"

 _I'm not **that** crazy, I know I'm not. _ Heath realized he was just staring dumbly at the scene around him. He knew that he should definitely do **_something –_** especially because Morgan was still moving and making sounds and was therefore still dangerous. Heath was pretty sure the colonel wore a sidearm under that uniform coat. He sheathed his boot knife as a simple first step, and then started trying to get up.

Before he got very far, Teleli suddenly appeared with Morgan's blue cloak in his hands. Without a word, he wrapped it around Heath and bodily lifted him to his feet, half-carrying him to Charger's side. Heath's head swam and his knees began to buckle. Teleli held him up, and with a combined effort they got Heath up in the saddle.

"Get the – get the rifle," he managed to say as he hunched over Charger's neck, fighting to stay conscious. "And hurry," he added more strongly as he saw Morgan turning to look at them and fumbling for the covered holster on his hip. "Teleli, hurry –"

Teleli still hadn't spoken a word. Rifle in his hand, he leapt up behind Heath to hold him steady, grabbed the reins, and gave Charger his head. The colt did not need to be asked twice. He gathered himself and took off up the mountain, just as Morgan rolled to his back with his pistol in his hand and began pulling the trigger.


	74. Chapter 73 - Illumination

_What in me is dark_

 _Illumine, what is low raise and support,_

 _That to the height of this great argument_

 _I may assert eternal Providence,_

 _And justify the ways of God to men._

 _John Milton, "Paradise Lost"_

* * *

 ** _Hannah's Cabin, Barkley Ranch, December 3, 1874_**

Clouds raced overhead as the restless weather shifted direction. The cold, dry, crystalline air of the mountains flowed into the valley, calling up the fog from the warm soil and just as quickly dissipating it with gusts of chilly wind. Hannah had watched the thinning, evanescent stampede of mist and cloud as it had galloped through the foothills all afternoon. The low angle of the afternoon sun now blazed with clarity across the valley, illuminating to brilliant white the last few wisps of moving vapor.

She was cooking. _Or pretending to cook_ , Silas thought. That seemed more accurate. Poised to knock on her door, he watched her stare out the window and chop the same carrot into smaller and smaller and smaller pieces. He raised his hand to rap on the lintel.

Before he could do so, he was suddenly near-blinded by a flash of reflected sunlight from the long cooking knife Hannah held in her hand. He heard her gasp, and then cry out – in pain? Fear? He couldn't tell. The knife clattered to the floor and she stepped back, clutching her bleeding left hand but staring intently out the window. Even as he rushed in to her aid, he found himself wondering about that.

 _If you just cut open your hand, why are you still looking out the window? What could you be looking at that's more important right now than what you just did to your hand?_

Such were his scolding thoughts as he hurried to her side, but he did not speak them. He was pretty sure he knew what Hannah was seeing. He sat her down and bandaged her hand; though he was afraid to know, he asked, and let her talk. Both knew they were going to have to carry their worries for a long stretch yet, and so they stayed close, and kept each other company to make the carrying a bit lighter.

* * *

 ** _Stanislaus Mountains, December 3, 1874_**

Jarrod reined in hard, causing Jingo to toss his head and snort. It was as close to an expression of annoyance as the horse ever got. His rider's distress had been glaringly obvious from the moment Jingo had been tacked up for this trip. The feeling had been rising steadily ever since; Jingo could sense it in the tension on the reins, in the shift of his rider's weight; Jarrod's heartbeat and breathing and scent were all screaming alarms to the horse.

His temperament being what it was, Jingo coped with this by steady forward movement, responsive to his rider's requests. They had reached a branching point in their trail, and suddenly Jarrod demanded they stop, though it was abundantly clear to Jingo that what his rider wanted was the exact opposite. The unrelenting tension was exhausting, and it made him uncharacteristically nervous.

Distracted though he was, Jarrod did notice his horse's unsettled mood and knew he was the cause. He patted Jingo's sweated neck and murmured a few comforting words, as his worried eyes studied the mountains rising up before him.

 _Heath, listen to me, please –_

He was too late, Jarrod was certain now – too late at least to make it to his brother's side to face this enemy. He felt breathless, dizzy for a moment, and he closed his eyes, briefly overwhelmed by a black, hopeless feeling that washed over him. It was foreign. It was not _his_ darkness, but it drained and sickened him nonetheless.

 _Just dead is better than – better than **this**. Better than whatever **I** am._

 _Useless? Incurable? **That is not truth** , Heath. That lie is the real enemy. Question it. **Fight** it._

 _\- all of you should just let me go - what's it gonna take to – to convince -_

 _The Devil is a liar, Heath._

 _Jarrod -?_

The embattled desperation, the _lost-ness_ contained in that one word just about ripped his heart out. Jarrod pulled in a ragged breath. He blinked and looked around, abruptly and fully back in the here and now. He felt the cold on his face as his tears dried in the freshening wind. He was trembling, not with fear, but with the intense desire to defend and protect his family.

The trail divided at this point. He could cross the ridge north to the wagon road that led through Strawberry and on to Sonora Pass. He could continue straight up the Tuolumne toward Sutamasina. Or he could veer southeast...that choice seemed indistinct, but it tugged at him, as he was now sure he would not find Heath up ahead with the rest of his family.

Jarrod sat still, as the wave of darkness receded from his mind. Bright winter sunshine blazed down as the clouds raced by overhead. Jingo shook his head, jingling the metal of his bit, and a brilliant reflection flared blinding in Jarrod's eyes. He gasped and flinched back as an image of a long blade came slashing toward him. Just as quickly, it was gone. _Danger. Violence. Not just Heath. Which way to go?_

Jingo fidgeted anxiously; he was acutely aware of his startled rider's pounding heart and white-knuckle grip on the reins.

"Easy, boy, easy," Jarrod said softly, speaking as much to himself as the horse. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, then looked up the trail, feeling the pull of several paths, several needs, trying to decide which way to proceed. He ached to go riding after wherever Heath was going, but he sensed – he **_knew_** – he would not find him. Not now, not yet. He would have to find a different way. _Out of my reach._ He felt it as a physical pain in his heart as he turned Jingo back onto the trail and continued on to Sutamasina.

* * *

 _I am for the air. This night I'll spend_

 _Unto a dismal and a fatal end._

 _Great business must be wrought ere noon._

 _Upon the corner of the moon_

 _There hangs a vap'rous drop profound._

 _I'll catch it ere it come to ground._

 _And that distilled by magic sleights_

 _Shall raise such artificial sprites_

 _As by the strength of their illusion_

 _Shall draw him on to his confusion._

 _William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"_

* * *

 ** _Sonora Pass, December 3, 1874_**

Teleli jumped at the loud report of the rifle, looking nervously up at the granite slopes behind them that rose out of sight into the moving clouds and snow. The bullet shrieked like a crazed spirit, and the chilling sound seemed to Teleli to echo between the mountains for a disturbingly long time. He glanced at the bay colt, who merely bobbed his head, apparently undisturbed either by the noise, or by the possibility of another avalanche. That at least helped Teleli feel calmer, as the horse had definitely anticipated the other two slides they barely avoided making this crossing. Charger's speed was the only thing that kept them from being caught up and crushed, he was certain.

 _Morgan's horse would've saved him too, if he'd had the sense or the sanity to let him. But he came after us like a demon. Me'weh knew he would follow us as he did. He knew Morgan would either die in the chase from his wound, or be killed by the mountain. And so Me'weh led him on this mad trail. I don't think he expected Morgan to be able to turn back and attack the brother or the marshals –_

He heard a groan, and he hurried over to help, as Me'weh was struggling to get back on his feet. Teleli threw the cloak over his shoulders again, feeling the man sway and then begin shivering violently.

"What happened? Did you hit him? What were you aiming at?"

"Y- yeah," Heath rasped, lifting his head with some difficulty. He squinted into the snow. "He's gone…b-but John's hurt, I think - I c-can't see if – I can't see how bad, can you?"

Teleli peered across for a long moment, until finally he said, "Yes, he's hurt, but he's moving, and see, it looks like he's getting up on his horse with the other marshal."

"That's good, that's good…" This was muffled and barely audible. "I don' know what I was aiming at…I saw him once, moving, and I - I just - I could picture it...I knew where he'd be…" The rifle slipped from his numb fingers and clattered on the rocks.

Teleli could feel Me'weh starting to sag against him. He tightened his hold around his shoulders and steered him back toward the horse. He himself was starting to limp; he had a bullet wound in his left leg from Morgan's pistol. Teleli had bound it tightly once they had gotten clear of the gunfire, but he'd have to stop and take care of it sometime soon.

"Wouldn'ta had this problem if you had better aim in the firs' place," Heath mumbled, his head falling back against the Indian's shoulder. He could barely keep his eyes open.

Teleli grunted his agreement as he propped Heath up against Charger's flank, then helped him up into the saddle. "Never did have good aim, Me'weh. Gotta get you fixed up so we don't starve to death."

"G-get us down out of th' snow…don' want my horse to starve to death," Heath responded. He drooped over Charger's neck and felt Teleli wrap the cloak tighter around him. "Rescuin' me again, Teleli, I thank you…"

Teleli made a noncommittal noise. Heath tried to turn to look back at him, but everything hurt so bad he decided he'd better stay still. The movement of the horse was painful enough. "Marshals are gonna keep comin'. If they get close, don't you hang back with me, y'hear?" Teleli didn't answer. Heath tried to speak more forcefully. "I can't – I can't _make_ you do anything, Teleli, but I don't want you to get caught on my account. I'm just gonna slow you down, you know that."

Teleli nodded. "Alright, Me'weh. You rest now."


	75. Chapter 74 - Shepherd

_The moon resumed all heaven now,  
She shepherded the stars below  
Along her wide, white steeps of snow,  
Nor stooped nor rested, where or how._

 _Nor spared  
The fearful meaning, the mad pain,  
The weary eyes, the poor dazed brain,  
That came at last to feel, to see  
The dread, dead touch of lunacy._

 _How loud the silence! Oh, how loud!  
How more than beautiful the shroud  
Of dead Light in the moon-mad north  
When great torch-tipping stars stand forth  
Above the black, slow-moving pall  
As at some fearful funeral!_

 _Joaquin Miller, "The Yukon"_

* * *

 ** _Buckeye Canyon, Sawtooth Ridge, Sierra Nevada, December 7, 1874_**

 _Get us down out of the snow._

Teleli shook his head in bemusement as he thought back over the past few harrowing days they had spent trying to do just that. _Just get us down out of the snow,_ Me'weh had said, as if it were a simple and obvious task to accomplish – which, of course, it was not. _I should not have been surprised. After all, what else would I expect, running from the law with Pele Me'weh, the blind squirrel hero? This should be a tale for Husu to tell the village. I may never get the chance to share it with him, but maybe Me'weh will._

Teleli had constructed a shelter for the two of them beside a hot spring that welled up in a protected niche between two shoulders of rock. The wind moaned and hissed outside; the layers of pine branches and thatch he had woven together served to keep in the warmth of the spring, and keep out most of the cold mountain air. Snow blew fitfully outside, riding the gusts that spiraled up and down the canyon. Only a few inches of snow lay on the ground at this altitude, being on the drier eastern slope of the Sierra. Beneath, there was ample ground cover for Charger to forage as he lingered near the warmth of the steamy pool. The hot spring fed into the nearby creek, keeping it from freezing over, giving both men and horse fresh water. Their snares had already caught several jackrabbits. In this season, the canyon was trackless and largely void of human traffic, though in the summer, Teleli's people had historically travelled here to trade with the tribes that foraged around Mono Lake.

It seemed to Teleli to be a very good place to hole up and recover. Neither of them could really have made it much further anyway.

They had crested an uncharted pass to descend the eastern slope of the range with a raging blizzard on their heels. It was only good fortune, and Me'weh's relentless search and movement forward - on a path that only he could see, with those strange, sky-colored eyes – that saved them from being caught in that deadly maelstrom. It broke over the ridgelines above and behind them in a howling fury and reached down after them with hands of wild snow and wind. They struggled ahead, three ghostly figures rimed in ice, until they reached the lower canyon where it seemed safe to halt. In a hoarse, exhausted voice, Me'weh had explained as best he could the landmarks that would lead them to the hot spring where they now sheltered. Soon after, he had lost consciousness, and slumped in Teleli's arms as they rode slowly ahead, while Teleli searched for the place Me'weh had described.

* * *

 ** _Four Days Earlier, Sonora Pass, December 3, 1874_**

 _Teleli watched Me'weh straighten up with an effort, wincing and bracing himself on the horn of the saddle. He seemed to be struggling to get his eyes focused on the terrain around them. Every movement, every shallow, labored breath he took, looked to Teleli like it hurt like hell._

 _Only hours ago, he had found Me'weh locked in hopeless combat, one sword-stroke away from death. Teleli had no doubt that Me'weh had gone after Morgan with the expectation, and possibly the hope, that he would be killed._ Me'weh had found something in his spirit to help him keep fighting. That was good, _Teleli thought, and he hoped to find out what that was. It would be a place to start, presuming, of course, they even survived getting back out of the mountains._

 _Teleli had made a promise to help Me'weh in any way he could. He did not know the helping would begin with a desperate rescue, and then a chase into the high country in winter. He certainly did not expect to be leading the crazed Yayali to his death by avalanche and sniper fire; nor did he ever plan on being trapped – as it seemed they were - in the winter fortress of the mountains._

 _Moreover, there was an additional problem, one that Teleli had failed to take into account until now. Wounded and as in dire need of rescue as Me'weh was, if he continued to flee with Teleli (which he clearly intended to do), he would himself become an accomplice and a fugitive from the law._

 _Nevertheless, here they were, and Teleli accepted the situation philosophically. He had pulled Me'weh from the teeth and claws of Yayali. Thus, it was now doubly his responsibility to bring Me'weh to safety, and help him go home, if he could._

 _The day was waning. The weather was shifting rapidly, bringing much colder air but clearing skies. The sun emerged emphatically from the banks of cloud and illuminated the snowy granite peaks that now stood brilliant white and crystalline gray against the dark blue sky._

 _"Beautiful sight," Heath murmured, and Teleli, briefly speechless, breathed a sound of agreement behind him._

 _"We're in luck, Teleli."_

 _"In **luck** , Me'weh?" _

_Teleli thought they were in anything but luck. In fact, he thought they were in serious trouble. The only safe passage back lay behind them, across an impassable valley buried in snow and rock. Even if they **could** reach that wagon track, that route would promptly place them both in the hands of the law. _

_Their only way forward, as far as Teleli could see, involved traversing a massive, maze-like wilderness of treeless, snow-covered ridges and steep ravines. It was a vast barrier of ice and stone rising thousands of feet upward from where they already stood. How they were to find their way through – and down out of the snow - he had no idea. He sighed. He had to ask._

 _"Why are we in luck, Me'weh?"_

 _"Because I've made this mistake before. Weather wasn't quite as bad, but almost. And I sure as hell was in better shape than I am right now."_

 _Hearing his own words, Heath's attempt at bravado faltered. He did not in the least bit think they were in luck. It **was** true that he had made this mistake before, and he had found a path out. He was going to work that advantage for everything it was worth. He remembered the way – he didn't forget such things, usually – but even so, in December, he knew surviving the crossing was a long shot._

 _"I was lost. I couldn't go back the way I came, and I had no idea which way to go forward. I thought I could make it to Relief Meadow, and maybe find a trail down from there, but that way was blocked. So I found myself following a creek up that canyon ahead. I stumbled along for miles, losing the daylight…was just about dark, and getting cold, and starting up snowing again, when I saw a trailmarker, pointing up a small canyon I would've just passed by. The marker got me to a cave I could stay dry in for the night. Next morning I followed the canyon on up and over the ridge. Every time I thought I'd reached a dead end, couldn't see where to go…there'd be – there'd be one more marker – and -"_

 _Emotion – along with fatigue, pain, and dizziness - suddenly roughened his voice, and he fell silent. Teleli looked at him with curiosity. Heath glanced at him, and then looked away, flushing slightly with embarrassment, and hoping he wasn't going to cry. Something about Teleli made him feel uncharacteristically self-conscious. As a child, Heath had been acutely aware of Teleli's imperious, teenager, big-brother presence. Sick and scared as he had been then, still he had instinctively wanted the older boy to respect him, to think well of him. The feeling lingered, apparently, intensified by the fact that in his current condition, Heath would not survive more than a day without Teleli's help._

 _Heath cleared his throat, grimacing as he tried again to sit up straight. He was pale, and sweating slightly, and as he continued speaking Teleli thought he looked not well at all._

 _"I don't – I don't know who put them there, or why. Probably saved my life, though -" He shivered and tightened his grip on the saddle, very aware that he would likely fall to the ground without Teleli's support behind him. "I know you wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn't for me," he added gruffly, "so I'm gonna do whatever I can to get you out of it."_

* * *

 ** _Buckeye Canyon, December 7, 1874_**

Teleli stirred the low fire, careful of the hanging skin he was using to bring some water to a low boil. He lifted a poultice he was warming near the flames. Testing it first to make sure it would not burn him, he applied it firmly to the incision he had made on his leg to clean out the bullet wound. The contact was excruciating, and he yelled with the pain, the noise muffled somewhat by the wadded-up bandanna he had clenched ferociously between his teeth for just that purpose. He fell back, panting, onto the moss-covered ground, dizzy and nauseated. The acute misery slowly passed, and the poultice began to ease the constant throbbing ache of his leg. He took a few careful breaths, sat up, and reapplied a tight wrap around his injured thigh. He was sweating, even in the slight chill of their spring-warmed shelter, and he was well aware his injury could easily become a very serious problem.

 _Not much more I can do about that right now_.

Turning his attention now to Me'weh, Teleli was glad to see he had not roused with the noise. He lay asleep, his face pale and bruised beneath the ruddy snow-burn of his skin. Teleli had not been able to fully assess or tend to Me'weh's injuries or his own until a day ago, after he had constructed this shelter and gotten them both out of the weather.

Me'weh was badly battered and bruised over his whole face and body. He had a few broken ribs. His left elbow had been dislocated and then violently put back in place, and was clearly still sprained and unstable. He was covered with lacerations from Morgan's blade, some of them very deep. He had lost a great deal of blood.

The open wounds and injured elbow Teleli had addressed as best he could. Both men had suffered some frostbite, along with hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. Able at last to rest in the shelter by the hot spring, they had eaten, drunk, and finally gotten warm.

Me'weh then had fallen asleep, shivering and sweating with fever. He had not woken now for several hours, except for the nightmares. Teleli could see their passage on his face as the demons came and went, moving swift just under the surface like the sea monsters in the stories the coast Miwok tribes used to tell at the gatherings.

Yayali they had left behind them, up in Sonora Pass. Many more such demons traveled with them still. They weighed on Me'weh; they howled and chased after him all through this flight into and over the mountains. From the moment the two of them had fled Morgan's bullets, Teleli could see Me'weh was wholly a fugitive; his mind, his spirit, his every sense was focused on their path of escape; desperately focused, in fact, as that frantic, single-minded flight was the only way left to him to keep the howling at bay.

Teleli knew well this sickness of the spirit. He knew, too, Me'weh could not keep it up for long. No one could; it was the last gasp of a man trying to outrun the madness. Such a man will either become utterly lost; or he will stop running, and he will turn to face it, for better or worse.

Me'weh wanted to go home. Teleli strongly felt this to be true. Even as a child, Teleli sensed Me'weh's strength came from his bond with those he loved. That bond was also driving him away; he feared burdening his family even more than he feared the things that haunted him. Teleli understood that.

Teleli had reached that end himself, when he found the Weeping Woman along the banks of the Tuolumne. It was there, when he was most lost to himself, that he had taken his first step toward home. His spirit began to remember freedom, and trust, and love; that was good, even if he himself could never hold his Hekeke and their children again. Teleli smiled to remember the arrival of Osa's baby, and the magnificent horse Nox, and Osa's joy. _How strange,_ he mused, _that her beautiful dark horse brought Me'weh and I together on this trail – brought his people and mine together – so many years later._

Outside, the wind sang and the snow flew. Teleli kept watch over Me'weh. He tended the fire; he pictured his Hekeke and their children safe in their new village; and he imagined Osa's laughing reunion with the man she loved, the man for whom she wept all through the autumn and into the winter.


	76. Chapter 75 - Gathering

_It is love that asks, that seeks, that knocks, that finds, and is faithful to what it finds._

 _St._ _Augustine_

 _ **Sonora, California, December 6, 1874**_

Victoria stood at the east-facing window of the City Hotel, gazing out at the mountains. The peaks were invisible, wrapped within a burgeoning shroud of storm cloud and snow. The gale winds outside threw rain hard against the windows and rattled the wood frame of the building. She shivered slightly, and pulled her wool wrap more tightly around her shoulders. She knew what this weather would be, up in the high country. A brawling wet storm had rolled in from the coast with all the power of the Pacific behind it. It had collided with the Sierra like an ocean breaker, surging upward to the highest peaks and becoming a fury of outrageous wind and snow.

She felt inexpressibly grateful that her family, the marshals, Ilsa, and the baby made it back down to Sonora during the break of clear, cold weather before the storm hit. _Some of my family. Not all,_ she thought, as she watched the storm and thought back to the previous day. _Heath, where are you? Have you found shelter, somewhere? Did you even make it out of the pass? Where are you going…? Will you come home to us?_

Yesterday morning, she was still waiting anxiously at the hotel. Her entire family was up there in the mountains. She had tried to distract herself from the intolerable fear and helplessness by working on the legal tasks of releasing the Miwok indentures and transferring the land to their control. In this, she was only marginally successful: without Jarrod's input, no other attorney seemed capable of properly executing the family's intent regarding the Miwok, and besides, she was finding it almost impossible to concentrate on anything but her absent loved ones.

Phil Archer had joined her briefly yesterday for breakfast. He had been working nearly around the clock since Jarrod had handed him this wide-ranging case, and he shared with her the news that he had spoken with Jed, who had ridden into town during the night. On Jarrod's instructions, he related, Jed had collected a horse and wagon, some extra food and blankets, and some medical supplies, and immediately turned to go back up to Sutamasina. Swift and stealthy though he was, Jed and his errand still did not escape the vigilant notice of Moshe and Peter, who insisted on going with him.

Victoria interrogated Phil for any other information he could provide. All he could tell her was what little he had learned from Jed: Jarrod was in Sutamasina with Audra, Rivka, Ilsa, and the baby; John, Nick, and Frank had ridden out when they heard gunfire, current whereabouts unknown; Teleli, Heath and Morgan were also unaccounted for; and for some reason Jarrod felt they needed transport and more medical supplies.

This last bit of information worried Victoria to no end, and she left the remainder of her breakfast untouched, rising instead to pace up and down the long balcony that ran along the second floor of the hotel. She paced and watched the eastern approaches to the town, and silently prayed for her sons, her daughter, and her husband to come home safely.

Just past noon, a shout went up from the livery, and Victoria ran to the edge of town to see the travelers' approach. Breathless, lips dry as much from anxiety as from the cold mountain air, she found she could not stand still and wait, and so set out on the wagon track on foot to meet them. As they came more clearly into view, she could not help but begin a head-and-horse count.

She saw first the wagon, with Nox walking close alongside. Moshe was driving. Peter sat beside him – _and that must be Ilsa and the baby._

Even under the weight of her worry, Victoria could not help but feel the glow of familial love that came from that group of five: the horse; the couple and their baby; and a man who had lost everyone, and everything, except for his compassion and his talent and his ability to love. Each of them had been scattered and scarred by political and criminal acts of violence. They had come back together, and they blazed with the warmth of a home hearth.

Nick came into view riding Coco. His arm was in a sling, but his posture seemed strong, and Victoria had hope he was otherwise uninjured. Jarrod was riding beside him.

 _There is Jed,_ she now saw, _and Frank; he is leading a chestnut carrying a dead soldier. That must be Morgan_.

 _But where is John…? Where is Audra, and Rivka? Where is Heath, and Charger?_

Dread began to fill her as Victoria recognized John's horse, riderless, tethered to the back of the wagon. She began running. Seeing her, Jarrod spurred Jingo forward. He lifted his mother easily up behind him and brought her to the wagon.

"It's John, Mother. He's hurt pretty bad, but Rivka is taking care of him –"

Victoria very nearly jumped into the wagon from Jingo's back in her haste to reach John. She knelt down beside him. He was pale and perspiring, holding himself very still as he lay with his head on Audra's lap. Rivka crouched beside him, replacing a blood-soaked bandage with a clean one.

He tensed and groaned faintly as she applied some pressure. His eyes closed, he frowned in painful concentration as he suffered through each jolt of the wagon. The clenched muscles of his jawline reflected each and every bump and ditch of the dirt track they followed.

"Moshe," she heard him gasp through gritted teeth after a particularly brutal jounce, "Moshe, go back. Go back, I think you missed one -"

Frank, riding alongside, couldn't help but chuckle, worried as he was. He tried to give Victoria a reassuring smile.

"John," she said, trying her best to keep tears from her voice.

John's eyes cracked open at the sound of her voice, and he smiled faintly. "Hey, Vee," he managed. "You look beautiful."

"John, don't – how – how are you -" She looked at Rivka, eyes full of terrified questions. "What happened?"

"A _**sword**_ ," he growled, before Rivka could answer. "The goddamned Colonel came after me with a sword. With - a goddamned - _**sword**_." He looked up at her. The anger faded from his expression as soon as their eyes met. "I'm so sorry, Vee. About this, about Heath –"

Victoria wondered if she had ever had a moment in her life when she had felt her emotions and attention so strongly pulled in so many different directions. She could hardly think where to direct herself.

 _John, and Heath, and this new baby; a whole village of sick and starving Indians; Nick is hurt; and my brave, big-hearted daughter has been through so much, and accomplished so much over the past few days. I need to talk to her, to hear how she is, to tell her how proud I am of her…_

Victoria shook her head and held up a hand, suddenly stern. John went dutifully silent and just watched her face, wincing as Rivka tightened the wrap around his lower chest.

"John. Stop talking. One thing at a time." She turned to Rivka. "Tell me."

"He's lost a good bit of blood," Rivka responded with efficiency. Her necessary focus on John's injuries had gone a long way to helping her maintain her own composure. "Not life-threatening, but enough to make him feel like it." John raised his eyebrows at her and she winked at him. "I've been able to get most of that under control – not all, as you can see, but we can take care of that once we're in town. Sounds like Dr. Robinson has a well-supplied surgery, and is pretty good at what he does too, from what Peter tells me." She grew more serious. "I am worried about the amount of discomfort he's having. The fact that the jostling is so painful to him makes me worry about peritonitis. Another reason to get him to surgery. I think it's early enough we can be optimistic he'll be fine, though he's going to feel not so good in the meantime." She looked back down at John, who seemed, if anything, acutely embarrassed at the prospect of being a patient. "Don't worry, Marshal," she soothed, "we'll do our very best to keep your dignity intact."

Victoria breathed a sigh of relief. Recalcitrant, self-conscious, injured men: that, she could manage. Between Rivka and Dr. Robinson, she felt they were in good hands. She leaned down to kiss John's cheek and stroke a hand through his hair. He reached up with his one free arm to pull her closer, and smiled as she whispered in his ear.

"Looks like I'm going to be in charge of you for a spell, Marshal."

"Always," he murmured, his eyes closing again.

"Now I need to hear about Heath. Not from you," she commanded, as John tried to answer. "You rest." Her eyes met Rivka's, and her heart went out to the younger woman for the pain and longing she could see there. She did not see hopelessness, though, nor defeat, and that steadied her somewhat. She reached out to the woman she dearly hoped would soon be her daughter-in-law. Rivka hugged her back fiercely, her embrace communicating volumes of need and emotion that she would not at this point speak aloud. Victoria then looked to Audra, who had been assisting Rivka and hovering protectively over John in a way that was a marked change from her reserved attitude of even just a week ago ago. Audra nodded to her to let her know she could go talk to her brothers and the marshals.

"Go ahead, Mother. We'll be watching John. We should be at the doctor's very soon."

She kissed Audra and studied her lovingly for a long moment, one maternal hand on her cheek. "I am so proud of you," she whispered. She glanced up at the couple in the driver's seat, who were looking on with concern. "Peter, Ilsa, congratulations," she said with sincerity. "I am so happy for you. I hope we'll be able to celebrate with you properly soon." Then she rose and rejoined Jarrod to hear what the men could tell her about Heath.

A few hours later, Audra was at the hotel, getting Ilsa and Peter and the baby settled in. She had been unable to convince Moshe to take a room as well, but he accepted their invitation to dinner, and with a storm approaching, he did bring his horse and wagon to shelter indoors with Nox at the livery for the night.

Victoria was waiting again, this time in the tidy masculine warmth of Marshal Montana's office, next door to Dr. Robinson's consultation and surgery. She accepted a cup of rather good coffee from Jed, who appeared at her elbow periodically to check if she needed anything. She had heard everything the men could tell her about events at Sutamasina and below Sonora Pass.

Heath was alive, at last sighting, anyway. That fact did not ease the feeling of dread that they all shared. Heath was injured; he was riding with a wanted fugitive; they were trapped up near the timberline with a nasty storm rolling in; and none of the men there could think of a path of travel that would bring them back down to a survivable altitude.

"There must be a pass they could use," Nick insisted again. "Heath headed south off the wagon track intentionally. Yes, he was deliberately drawing Morgan on, but I can't see him trapping himself and Teleli on purpose. I'm sure he had an idea of where to go."

"Even if he had a plan, Nick, it's December," Jarrod said somberly. "What are the chances it would be passable?" To Victoria's perceptive eyes, her eldest son looked once again thoughtful and preoccupied as he gazed at the maps strewn on the table. She prayed he was brewing some idea that would bring Heath home.

"I know Heath knows that country well as anyone," Frank muttered, looking over Jarrod's shoulder at the map he was studying, "but I sure as hell can't think of which way he'd go from there."

A gust of wind swept through the room as Montana entered. He was escorting James Mills, who was no longer in uniform. Mills carried himself with a serious and cooperative demeanor, and Frank once again marveled at the change in the young man.

Mills had overheard some of the discussion as they entered, and his eye was drawn to the maps spread out over the table. He started to speak, then hesitated, acutely aware of the level of distress in the room, and especially that of the lady. The illegitimate Barkley son she had adopted was missing, Her husband was gravelly injured and in surgery. Their eyes met, and he felt the weight of what harm Morgan - and he -had done to her. He wanted to ease that, somehow.

" _What_?" She could see an urgency in his eyes that she did not understand. "What is it?"

"There is a way, from there. It's not easy - might be impossible in this weather, but there is a way."

Mills approached the table and drew it out for them. Eyes focused on the map, what he saw was his Uncle Nathan, joyfully exploring the mountains; joyfully getting lost and then finding his way; joyfully piling stones as a trailmarker for the next wandering soul who might need the help. _Come on, Jimmy! This is a beautiful cave you found, son. Just beautiful. Make a marker there, my boy. Good job. Which way should we go tomorrow, do you think? Top of the world…._

Mills took a shaky breath as he felt tears threaten. He stepped back. Not for the first or the last time, he struggled to bear up under the truth that he would never again see his Uncle Nathan, or ever again walk in those mountains.

"Where would they end up, James?" Jarrod asked quietly. He could see the strength of the emotions the man was trying to control.

"Probably near Eagle Peak. Buckeye maybe, or Twin Lakes."

Jarrod nodded with the look of a man who had made a decision. He crossed the room and put a hand on Jed's shoulder.

"Jed," he said quietly, "you and I need to talk."


	77. Chapter 76 - Whirlwind

**_City Hotel, Sonora, California, December 6, 1874_**

Movement and a muffled groan of pain promptly drew Victoria's attention away from the hotel room window. She hurried back to the bedside, where John was gamely suffering through Dr. Robinson's medical attentions. She was glad to see some color coming back to his face. He, Frank, and Nick had all three come back wind-burned and frostbitten after their chase up into the pass, but John had lost a lot of blood. This was the first time since their return that she did not see that deathly pallor lurking behind his show of good health.

"Almost done, Marshal," the doctor informed him. He glanced up at Victoria. "It's healing well already. I am going to replace the packing this time, just to be sure there isn't any more that needs to drain. This part is going to hurt," he added, unnecessarily. Victoria had already moved close to John's side and taken a firm grip on his hand.

John smiled at her and squeezed her hand. He took as deep a breath as he could, took one more, and then nodded to the doctor.

It hurt like blazes, but Robinson was experienced and quick. A few minutes later, he had his patient bandaged up, and was already packing up his satchel while John was still catching his breath. Victoria sponged the perspiration from John's face, gave him a drink of water, and helped him sit up against the headboard of the bed. They thanked the doctor, who bid them a pleasant good day, and told them he'd be back tomorrow.

John laid his head back and just stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the pain of the wound pounding right along with his racing heart. A few more careful breaths and his pulse started to slow. The pain began to subside. He felt warmth at his side; Victoria, with the grace and stealth of a Siamese cat, had snuggled up next to him on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her and sighed.

 _So much we need to talk about, V. So much I need to think through, now that my head is clearing._

He felt a deep, aching worry for Heath that he could see shared in Victoria's eyes. John and Victoria had listened to what Rivka could tell them about their missing son and about Teleli. It was a thread of hope, and John did not discount it, but he could not banish from his memory the blood-soaked snow; the raw, drowning look he had seen on Heath's face in Morgan's tent; or those looming mountain peaks and the otherworldly roar of the avalanche.

"Jarrod has an idea. A plan," Victoria said quietly, as if John had spoken his train of thought aloud. "He won't tell me what it is, and I haven't had a chance to get him to explain, at least, _why_ he won't tell me."

"Is he –" John's question was interrupted by the sound of many voices in the hall and a knock on the door. Victoria rose to answer it, and John once again marveled at her ability to move without jostling in the least that angry hole in his side.

She opened the door to admit Marshal Montana, Jarrod, and Nick. Montana had an uncharacteristically sour look on his weathered face, which bothered John. The sour look vanished immediately upon seeing Victoria, which also bothered John.

"Raul," she said warmly, and laughed as Montana beamed and pulled her into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet.

Montana set her back down and caught John's sidelong look. He winked at Victoria and gave John a solid smack on the shoulder, causing him to wince. "Heal up quick, Johnny. I think you, me, and Vick need to have a few drinks and share a few funny stories." He narrowed his eyes at Jarrod and Nick, who were expressing some curiosity, and shook his head with a grin. "Nope. You young'uns ain't invited."

John relaxed slightly, as he felt Victoria again slip her warm hand into his. _I hope Raul is bringing us some good news._ Montana's arrival had brought John's worries around to a new focus. The tension he could see in his old mentor's demeanor, humor notwithstanding, was not a good sign.

He took another careful, deep breath. "OK, Raul, let's hear it."

Montana spoke directly to the point. "Got the wire and a formal written response from Sacramento. The good news, Johnny, is that the California AG has decided not to bring you up on any criminal charges. You're free to go once you're healed up enough to travel."

"Oh, thank God," Victoria breathed beside him.

"What's the bad news -?" John looked grim. He was near certain he knew.

"Governor's gonna want your resignation, Johnny. And –"

John nodded, unsurprised. "And -?"

"Governor and the AG are pushing back hard on Jarrod's petition for amnesty. As it stands right now, Teleli remains a wanted fugitive." The sour expression was back. "And now so is Heath."

* * *

 ** _Buckeye Canyon, Sawtooth Ridge, Sierra Nevada, December 7, 1874_**

 _Darkness. The smell of damp rock, smoke, animal hide. A low, moaning wind somewhere far away; gusting, the moan rises to a higher sound, louder, stronger, reaching for him. He hears screaming in the wind, crying, begging. Reaching for him. The sound follows him; it has followed him; it has found him again. He feels rough stone against his hands and face, unyielding. He cannot flee, but he cannot stop trying; he is too weak, and there is nowhere to go. His tears fall where he lies. He waits for the whirlwind, the screaming. He wishes for death, if death would be silence._

Teleli looked up as his fevered companion moaned faintly in his restless sleep. Me'weh rolled and weakly reached a searching hand over the mossy rock as if he meant to rise or move away. As Teleli watched, he seemed instead to shrink back. Frowning as if in pain, Me'weh covered his head, and turned his face into the ground.

Somber, Teleli stoked the small cook fire, and then moved away to the edge of the hot spring that bubbled up inside the rock wall of their shelter. He undressed, folding his deerskin clothing neatly and placing it to the side. He was lean and wiry. Scars from the lash crisscrossed his back, gathered as a result of slavery in childhood; enforced internment on a reservation as an adolescent; and imprisonment for insubordination, vagrancy, and disorderly conduct as an adult.

With the meditative concentration of ritual, he washed himself in the steaming pool. He then reapplied a poultice and bandage to his leg, and pulled on his leggings. Sitting back on his heels, Teleli wrung the water from his long black hair and twisted it into a dripping rope that fell down his back. Sufficiently clean now, he took up his satchel of medicines and drew out a few tight braids of sage and sweetgrass. These he wrapped tightly around the tips of two ritual sticks. Teleli could not dance inside this small shelter as he normally would, but he could feel there was a strong energy in this place on the mountainside. He could chant, and sing; he could draw that energy up to help them. He sat down cross-legged before the fire, across from Me'weh. He lit each of the ritual sticks so that aromatic smoke began to curl around him; he wedged them to stand in the creviced floor of the cave, one on either side of him, and he began to sway and chant.

 _Darkness. The drip of quiet water. A low rhythmic chant spirals and drifts down to him, alone down in the dark. There is a hint of light, of movement, far, far up and away. Singing. It tugs at him. He wants to follow that music upward but he has no way to climb, and other sounds get in the way. A howling wind, full of voices, comes boiling down over the mountains, and for a while, he can hear nothing else._

 _Darkness, all around, and his mother cries out in pain and anger. There is no air to breathe; there is no sound he can make. His heart is breaking. He has brought catastrophe into their home, and he is not strong enough to keep this evil away from his family. Smothered into silence, his heart cries out for them, but they are so far away. He cannot save them, or himself. The ground disintegrates beneath him, crumbling and collapsing down into black._

 _Mama does not answer him. She does not save him. He is so alone, so alone, so alone. Instead of his mother, a sweet, chilling voice slides in close and whispers in his ear._

 _You belong with me, Yankee boy. You are a plague on your family, and a plague on those poor pathetic Indians._

 _He moans, and tries to pull away, anything to get away, anything. He hears crying – crying out - pleading –_

 _Please stop – please –_

 _Begging, Yankee boy? Yes. Your Mama never begged, did she? That sound isn't your Mama. That's you. You begged. Didn't you?_

 _Hands move over him, smooth and caressing. It is a gentle, inquisitive touch, seeking out nerves and pressure points, discovering unending wellsprings of agony hidden under his skin. The hands stroke his hair, touch his face; they suffocate him to the point of unconsciousness and then let go before he can escape completely. Each time, they drag him back from that death-mirage of respite and release, just for the pleasure of watching the return of terrified, hopeless awareness in his eyes._

 _He sobs, his face to the ground, helpless to fend off that voice and that touch. They wrap like a curse around him, snakelike, seeking his warmth._

 _Mama never begged, but I did. I did, even though you wouldn't let me make any sound at all. Week after week after week, I couldn't see, I couldn't speak, but you could see me. I begged you to stop. I prayed death would come before I could betray my unit, Rivka, Hadassah, the twins. I knew I would betray them, once you decided that was what you wanted. I pleaded with you for any kind of mercy, I did, but I had nothing to trade. You had what you wanted. You fed on me and watched me beg, watched me die. I was fifteen. I was in Hell every time you looked at me, every time you touched me. Every time I thought of you, I was in Hell._

 _For a long time, no matter who looked at me, no matter who touched me, it was still you. I killed you, but it didn't help. I thought I had learned how to bury you and move on. I thought I had found a way, but I was wrong. I'm just broken. I can't keep you out of my head. I can't keep any of it out of my head. I'm not strong enough. I can't live like this –_

Heath had rolled to his back and thrown off the rough deerskin cover. His face was wet; he was sweating and breathing as if locked in some mortal combat. Teleli could see the truth of that in his pale sky-eyes, as they stared blindly up at the demons that rode the moving shadows.

 _A fight to the death, Me'weh,_ Teleli thought. _A losing battle? I know you think it is, and it may be that you are right. I thought so too, once._

"Watch and wait, Me'weh," he murmured. "Stay quiet and open. Let the demons come. Let them come with all their noise and terror, like a windstorm that rises and falls. Let them come, and let them go."

The sweet smoke spiraled up into the dark, and Teleli rocked and swayed by the fire as he chanted. Shadows leaped and danced on the rock and thatched walls; firelight swam on the moving surface of the spring and illuminated the warm tendrils of drifting steam.

 _Nuva' ka ro'rani'_  
 _Gosi'pa' havi'ginu_

 _The snowfield lies there_  
 _The Milky Way lies there_

 _Wumbi'ndoman, wumbi'ndoman_  
 _Nuvu'ri'p noyo'wana,_

 _The Whirlwind, the Whirlwind_  
 _The snowy earth comes gliding_

A smile came to Teleli's face as he pictured his cousins Malila and Kono and all the other children gathering to him in the camp, bubbling over with energy. They had wanted to sing and dance with the Ghost Dancers, and they especially wanted to tell him all about how Pele Me'weh had come back. Teleli had been in a frenzy of fear and worry for Osa that night, in a rush to escape the camp, evade the marshals, and get the doctor back up to Sutamasina. He did not take the time to talk with his little cousins.

He thought back on it now, though, and he remembered their faces, and Haja's words. He was deeply moved. A place now existed that Hekeke and their children could call home, but it was more than that. He could see, clear as a full moon, Me'weh's spirit reflected in the renewal of hope in Haja's face and in the faces and voices of the children. Me'weh and Rivka had brought more than just material help to his village. They had helped all of them regain their strength of spirit and turn their eyes to a possible future. Me'weh had shared his heart with the children, with all the people of the village. He had offered them love as well as compassion and respect. The signs of this were clear, Teleli thought, and it gave him hope that Me'weh could find such compassion for himself.

 _Kai'va wumbi'ndoma_  
 _Dombi'na so'wina'_

 _The Whirlwind on the mountain_  
 _The rocks are ringing_

 _Nuva' ka ro'rani'_  
 _Gosi'pa' havi'ginu_

 _The snowfield lies there_  
 _The Milky Way lies there_

* * *

 _A.N. The phrases of these songs are in the Paiute language, from whom the Central Sierra Miwok would have learned about the Ghost Dance religion, songs, and rituals. The original Ghost Dance began on the Walker Lake Reservation in Nevada, in 1870. It was started by Wodziwob, a Paiute Indian shaman, arising from visionary experiences he had in the late 1860s. According to "The Ghost Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890" by James Mooney, the imagery of snow and a whirlwind speaks to a renewal of spirit, culture, and earth. The Milky Way, as mentioned in an earlier chapter, is the spirit path of the dead, while the mountain snowfields represent the Sierras' life-giving source of water._


	78. Chapter 77 - Remedies

_Evils, like poisons, have their uses, and there are diseases which no other remedy can reach._

 _Thomas Paine, "The American Crisis"_

* * *

 ** _City Hotel, Sonora, California, December 6, 1874_**

 _"Governor's gonna want your resignation, Johnny. And –"_

 _John nodded, unsurprised. "And -?"_

 _"Governor and the AG are pushing back hard on Jarrod's petition for amnesty. As it stands right now, Teleli remains a wanted fugitive." The sour expression was back. "And now so is Heath."_

This was unwelcome news, to say the least. Jarrod looked pained, but not surprised. John had come to know this family well enough by now to predict whose voice he would hear next.

"Heath, a **_fugitive_**?" Nick exploded, stepping up to the foot of the bed. He glanced quickly around at his family then turned on Montana. "That's crazy. Teleli probably saved his life up there. A fugitive? If Heath was running, it was because he was running for his **_life_** , Montana! You didn't see it up there – all the blood – it was – it was like a killing floor at the stockyard."

Jarrod could hear the horror in his brother's voice as he pictured the scene. He moved to put a calming hand on Nick's arm, but it had little effect. Nick was steaming. "Teleli somehow got Heath alive away from that madman Morgan. And when Morgan was about to run your **_boss_** here through with a sword," he pointed at John without taking his eyes off of Montana, "Heath and Teleli did what they had to do to save John's life. **_Fugitives?_** My brother barely escaped with his _life_ , Marshal, and that Indian has my eternal gratitude and loyalty. The Governor should think again about who he's calling criminal."

"Nick speaks for all of us on that, Raul," Jarrod confirmed. "And believe me; I'm just getting started where the AG and Governor are concerned."

Montana had not flinched, retreated, or even shown much change of expression during Nick's tirade. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and looked up at the angry, worried young man.

Frank had described to him, in some detail, the violent scene they had discovered. Montana knew who Heath was to this family, to John, and to Frank. While he might have a bit more emotional distance from the situation, he did not disagree with what Nick was expressing. On the contrary, he shared their concern. He found his mandate in this circumstance distasteful; it was, in fact, becoming downright offensive.

He had been hunting after Teleli for over two years now, and he believed he had come to know some aspect of that elusive Miwok raider during that time. It had always struck him as significant that Teleli never left the Tuolumne area completely. He always remained somewhere within range of his village group as they were forced from one place to the next. Teleli and his group never raided for profit or revenge, as far as Montana could see, and they were so elusive they could easily have done so. They could strike and disappear at will, it often seemed. They could flee as far as they chose, but instead, Teleli kept them close – as if he was keeping watch. Montana knew for certain there were times the Chakka had the drop on him as he tried to follow them into the mountains, and could easily have killed him, had they been so inclined.

He had always known Teleli was a scapegoat, a target who would keep the money and armed support coming from Washington to deal with the "Indian problem". The charges of assault and attempted murder that had led Teleli to flee the reservation two years ago were, to Montana's eye, trumped up accusations intended to eliminate a troublemaker and potential tribal leader. There was no chance of a fair trial; the accusation alone was essentially a death sentence.

Now, two years later, Teleli – as a fugitive raider - had become even more valuable to the powerful men who were profiting from the "Indian problem". Several of the current residents of Montana's jail in Sonora had, in recent days, given statements describing (in lurid, nightmare-inducing detail) the crimes those powerful men had ordered and financed; crimes committed right here in his county, against his neighbors; horrible, bloody crimes that were promptly and publicly blamed on Teleli and the Chakka. Despite the growing evidence of conspiracy, Montana's orders from the California AG had been re-confirmed and prioritized. He was to apprehend Teleli as well as his apparent accomplice.

 _Powerful men_. **_Corrupted_** _men._ _Jarrod, I know you're trying to outflank me. I sincerely hope you can._ He nodded sadly, as he met Nick's eyes. "I understand, son. Truly, I do."

"Jarrod," Victoria interjected, "you mentioned you had a plan, an idea of some sort. Can you share any of that with us?" She made a concentrated effort to speak calmly and dispassionately. Her distress, however, was lost on no one in the room, and she was squeezing John's hand ferociously with a grip of iron.

Jarrod paused as he weighed his words. He held John and his mother's gaze as he did so, hoping they would understand his unspoken message, and willing them to trust him, at least. He spoke carefully.

"I think I know where he's going." He glanced at Montana. "Marshal, I know you're obliged to arrest both of them if you can. I want to be clear about this. I don't know for sure where Heath is. I have a hunch."

"A hunch which you shared with my deputy – **_my_** deputy - who then _conveniently_ rode out of town before he'd have to decide whether to lie to me about where he was going."

"Did he?" Jarrod said.

Montana rolled his eyes at Jarrod's expression of innocent surprise. "Save it, counselor. I'll be letting the AG know I'll prioritize this particular manhunt just as much as I possibly can, but it sure seems to me I'm **_much_** too busy right now wrangling Phil Archer and this herd of felons Johnny brought me to sort out. Yep, I'm much too busy to follow up with you and your hunches. Don't you agree, Marshal Smith?"

Smith raised his eyebrows at the formal address. Montana rolled his eyes again. "You ain't resigned yet, have you, Johnny?"

"Nope."

"Well?"

"Absolutely agree, Deputy Marshal Montana." John could feel his energy fading; he was dizzy, and the drumbeat of pain under his ribcage was intensifying. He was suddenly, powerfully sleepy. He forced himself to focus. "Absolutely. Agree. You should remain at Mr. Archer's disposal to the greatest extent possible during this important investigation."

"Well, now, Johnny, you didn't have to go quite that far." He looked narrowly at John's slight grin, then turned back to Jarrod. "Now, another thing, young man, I don't cotton to you appropriating my deputy for your convenience, which you seem to be getting in the habit of doing. Those two Thomas kids, they're gonna be good, but they're green. I need my experienced guy here, what with all this goin' on," he gestured broadly toward the window.

He turned back to John and Victoria and studied them fondly, humor creasing his weathered face. "Knew you were gonna stir up somethin' when you came back to California, Johnny. But _this_ –" He shook his head with a laugh. "Never woulda pictured it. You and Victoria. And now - I can't imagine it otherwise." He chuckled as he moved to the door and settled his hat down over his eyes. "Johnny, you need some medicine for pain and to go back to sleep. And I know you all have things to discuss as a family, so I'll just be getting back to work."

The door closed behind the departing marshal. "He calls Jed his 'experienced guy'?" Jarrod mused. "How experienced can he be? He looks like he's about 18 or 19."

"He's 19," Audra supplied as she flew unannounced into the room.

"And how do you know **_that_**?" John mumbled immediately, though his eyes were half-closed.

Audra laughed at his reflexive vigilance and came over to kiss his cheek. "We had to talk about _something_ while we were waiting and worrying up there, John. How are you feeling? What did the doctor say?"

John was rendered speechless, efficiently derailed by Audra's solicitous affection. He noticed both of her brothers were looking at him with amusement. He had just about made up his mind to protest when he fell asleep. Victoria gave Audra the doctor's update.

"Now that Audra is here," Victoria then said firmly, "and Raul is not, Jarrod, perhaps you can tell us something more about this 'hunch' of yours."

"I wish I could, Mother. I don't honestly know where he is, but if I can make contact with him –" Hands in his pockets, he earnestly looked at each of their faces as he chose his words. " ** _If_** I can, I may be able to put myself in a position to protect Heath and Teleli until we can put an end to this travesty.

"I hate to say this, Mother, but it will be best if you all know as little about it as possible. I'm sure I'll have a good enough bargaining position soon to secure an amnesty and bring them home." There was silence at this. "I guess I should say an amnesty would give them a _legal_ pathway home," he amended, aware that this was nowhere near the biggest obstacle facing his brother Heath on his current path.

Audra looked suddenly morose. "Did you know Rivka is getting medical supplies together to go back down to the camp? She said there was still so much to do there before she had to go back to San Francisco, and she said it was the only thing she could think of to do - to stop – to stop crying." She had found Rivka in the livery the night before, sobbing on Moshe's shoulder as he comforted her and murmured in Yiddish. Audra began to weep herself, thinking of it. "And I remember Teleli saying the only thing keeping him away from his family now was the legal trouble. He said he would go home if he could, if he knew he wouldn't be railroaded into prison." She looked up at Nick, tears in her eyes. "You remember? It just doesn't seem fair - what about Heath? Teleli wanted to help him, but if he **_could_** go home to Hekeke and his children – well, Teleli would go home, don't you think? An amnesty for them might just end up with Teleli home, and Heath out there by himself. What would an amnesty do for _him_? He's staying away because of how he **_feels_** – because he can't –"

"I know, honey," Jarrod interrupted. "I know, and you're right. It doesn't solve the whole problem – but I'd be willing to bet that Heath wants to make sure Teleli is out of danger, and that means getting them both off of the AG's wanted list. I believe Heath is doing everything he possibly can to find a way to come home. I think – if my hunch is right, if I can contact him – I think I can at least help keep him safe until he does."


	79. Chapter 78 - Ancient Pulse

_The land's sharp features seemed to be  
The Century's corpse outleant,  
His crypt the cloudy canopy,  
The wind his death-lament.  
The ancient pulse of germ and birth  
Was shrunken hard and dry,  
And every spirit upon earth  
Seemed fervourless as I._

 _At once a voice arose among  
The bleak twigs overhead  
In a full-hearted evensong  
Of joy illimited;  
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,  
In blast-beruffled plume,  
Had chosen thus to fling his soul  
Upon the growing gloom._

 _So little cause for carolings  
Of such ecstatic sound  
Was written on terrestrial things  
Afar or nigh around,  
That I could think there trembled through  
His happy good-night air  
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew  
And I was unaware._

 _Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), "The Darkling Thrush"_

* * *

 ** _Buckeye Canyon, Sawtooth Ridge, Sierra Nevada, December 8, 1874_**

 _"You're silly, Me'weh." He remembered a small hand on his cheek. "It's just a hole in the ground. You come up after me and dance too."_

 _In a brief, blessed quiet moment in the storm, a gentle hand lifted his head and held a skin of warm liquid to his mouth. His throat was so dry he felt for a moment unable to swallow. The tea had an odd, earthy taste, but his thirst was powerful, and he drank down as much as was offered. There came the chanting again, quiet but steady, rhythmic like the beating of a heart. It fell like water down to where he was, like a rope to climb to the surface, like a reaching hand to grasp._

 _Still, the deafening whirlwind returned. It surged and ebbed around him in painful, freezing gusts that raked fire over his skin and shook his bones. The sound and fury of it submerged him again, and again, like storm breakers on the coast. He did not fight it. It was no longer in him to fight it. He waited, and tried to listen in the lulls for the chanting._

 _Rivka's contralto came to him. He felt her arms around him in a warm embrace. Her words were sweet and warm and tasted of dark chocolate._

Heath, my love, you are not trapped. The evils that have befallen us sometimes do come back again. We have to battle them, again. But you are not a caged animal, circling on the same track over and over. You are the Catskill eagle. We soar together, my love; diving down into the blackest gorges, and rising out of them again to become invisible in the sunny spaces.

 _Can you forgive me, Rivka?_

Only if you come back to me, cowboy.

 _He asked himself if he could make the climb. He felt pretty sure he had it in him to try. He didn't think he had it in him to fail, though, and that scared him badly. If he fell, again – well, he reckoned he'd land someplace even more hopeless, someplace he didn't even want to try to picture._

 _The calming smell of sage washed over him. He watched the aroma curl and spiral in the air around him. It was green and dusty and glowed with warmth from the sun. Heath wondered distantly if he'd ever before been able to **see** sounds and smells. The experience seemed simultaneously odd, and entirely normal. Time - already slippery and unpredictable – became fluid and capable of moving in any direction; so too the physical world around him now shifted and glowed like a kaleidoscope. The tea warmed him from the inside. He felt some strength in his muscles, and some easing of the pain in his body. _

_He was moving, floating, and he was 10 years old again. He was back in the river, looking up at that distant patch of sky as his vision narrowed down to nothing._

I'm alive. I'm still alive, _he thought, and he could feel again that flash of wild joy thrumming inside his child's body, pushing up with a shout despite all the terrible fear and pain._

 _Miwok voices painted the darkness inside him with ribbons of brown and gray and green. A small child splashed to his side. The laughing, loving child's words were bubbles and warm raindrops that fell around his head. "Me'weh!" he sang. A bigger boy's strong arm wrapped around him, and lifted him up, dripping, from the wet rocks and shallow eddies of the river._

 _Suddenly, his perception shifted, and Heath was standing over his 10-year-old self, just as they had found him, half-drowned in the frigid mountain river. He waded in and knelt down to look in wonder at his bruised face and broken body, the blue eyes frightened and unseeing. He was so small. He could picture the three men who had attacked him and his family. They had chased this little boy, and threatened him with violence so heinous that he chose to throw himself off a cliff rather than be caught by them. Protective anger and love blazed up in him then like a bonfire, and there were tears on his face as he reached out to lift the boy out of the water._

 _A man barked an order._ Leave him. Leave the White boy.

No. I won't leave him here. _The little boy was almost weightless in his arms._

Don't let go. _The boy was trying to see him with those searching, sightless, embattled eyes._ Don't leave me? I want to go home –

 _I won't let go. I might not be able to get either of us home, but I won't leave you._

You can figure it out, Me'weh.

 _Malila?_

Me'weh always tries, and when he listens to his spirit inside, he finds which way to go. That's what Husu always says. That's how you saved Husu's life and dragged him over to where the door was even though you were blind and you couldn't breathe and the roundhouse was burning and falling down.

 _Hannah saved us, little one. I couldn't get us out._

You held onto him, and you tried to find the way out, and you yelled and kicked the door. Hannah wouldn't have found you or Husu if you hadn't. And you didn't leave him behind. You didn't. You held onto him, Me'weh. You held on to me too. Can you hold on to yourself?

 _Myself - ?_

 _He looked again at the small, wounded boy in his arms, and the memory crashed over him: his mother, screaming; the knife in his hand; the wet sound of a man dying, a man he had killed; and then his own death. This little boy's death. The child looked up at him with desolate eyes._

It was my fault – I brought those monsters down on my Mama – I'm so sorry. _Tears slid down his gaunt, bruised cheeks._ Maybe I should've stayed dead – I don't want them to hurt my Mama anymore.

 ** _No_** _._

He had been weeping before, but now, suddenly, he felt dry-eyed and solid as a mountain. _No, it's not your fault. **They** were monsters, and you fought as best you could. You were brave. Your Mama loved you. You loved her and brought her joy, and not a horde of ten thousand monsters could change her mind about that. _

_It was Hannah,_ he abruptly realized. _Hannah must have killed those other two men that night. **That's** why no one ever spoke about it again. It wasn't because of me. Hannah would've hung for it, if anyone knew. _

_The whirlwind swelled again. He held the little boy – (held himself, he marveled) - close against his chest, wanting to give him warmth, and shelter him from the waves of fear and screaming that broke over him. What he was hearing now were the screams of war, the smell of death by bullet and knife, and then captivity; chains, starvation, disease, torture, and more death. The boy in his arms now was 15, and far from home. His hair was long and filthy; he was thin as a skeleton and had been isolated, beaten, and starved for months. The man looked down into the boy's eyes, fearful of what madness he might see there._

 _There was madness in those eyes, yes, and something of the weariness of a battle-scarred old man whose comrades have all died. But Heath was humbled and even awed to see hope looking back at him from that skeletal face. There was life in that soul, and a willingness to grow. That hope demanded of him now not to despair, even as he felt Linceul wrap his arms around them both and describe what torments he planned for later._

 _The boy in his arms curled into him, trembling and hiding his face. The boy was ashamed of his abject, pleading terror, ashamed of the horror of his existence. He looked up at the man he might become, and asked if anyone would ever again be able to love him, or be near him, or touch him, because the horror would never wash away. It would always be a part of him. He wanted to grow up, to love, to have a family, the boy confessed, but he was afraid this rotting, terrorized, corpse-like being he'd become would be with him always, shambling in to horrify normal people, riding on his back, sleeping in his bed, shaking him awake with screaming nightmares._

 _Heath fought against his own rising panic, provoked as much by the boy's questions as by Linceul's whispers. He did not have an answer for those questions. All he could do was hold the boy tight and murmur to him not to fear, it was past, Linceul was in the past, he is no more._

I know he's dead, _the boy insisted._ But what about **_me_**? I can't just _survive_. _His eyes begged Heath for an answer that would help him keep his hope alive._ I want a home. I want a family. I want to marry Rivka. I want to be more than this busted–up creature that somehow managed not to die. I have to be more than that –

 _You are more than that. You are so much more than that. I know it, but I – I forget who I used to be, who I thought I could be. That creature is the not-dead man who has been stepping into my boots for some months now, and at some point I stopped chasing him off. At some point I gave up and gave in, and said, yes, that **is** who I am. I failed you, after everything you fought through. I failed Rivka. I failed everyone. I'm not strong enough to keep that creature away. _

It is not strength you need, Me'weh. That creature is a part of you too. Can you hold on to yourself?

 _A **part** of me? _

_There was a challenge in those words. It brought him up short and filled him with a very different sort of loathing. The creature was **him** , yes, but it was the **other** him; the one he used to be able to pretend not to be, most of the time. _

_Heath could see this clearly now. That not-dead man had dragged along beside him for all of his adult life, a lurking, ever-present threat. Sometimes he could be held off at a distance, but sometimes he would claw in so close that normal people would sense his blighted presence and back away, eyes averted. He was a curse, unredeemed, toxic._

 _The shuffling creature awoke and grew strong during that stretch in the Nevada prison. His grip had become unrelenting and tireless; he had beaten Heath down into the dirt; and it seemed now he had hauled himself up into the saddle and was fixing to ride away._

 _Not strength I need? You're telling me to hold on – to **that**? What I want to do is shoot him outta the saddle and leave him to bleed to death. A **part** of me? _

_Heath's arms were empty now, but the not-dead man was kneeling there in front of him, his eyes on the ground. To Heath, he was a shameful burden, a plague to be eradicated, a handicap, an adversary - a bastard son._

 _If I kill him, would I be free?_

 _Heath was exhausted in his soul; he was afraid; and he was trying to get somewhere he could barely even imagine anymore. The chanting flowed around him, braided in with other memories and other voices that sang to him of hope. He could see the sound, the music, the rhythm; he felt he could reach out and hold it in his hands. It was a path to follow, to climb. He had to try. The child, the boy he had been deserved no less. But what of that cursed, wounded creature? What did he deserve?_

Watch and listen, Me'weh. _Teleli chanted. His voice was low and clear; it was the color of copper, and flowed around him like water over river rocks. It was mesmerizing._ Let the demons come, with all their noise and terror. It is a fight to the death, but the fight is not with them. Let them come, Me'weh, and let them go. Stay quiet, and open. It is not strength you need, but compassion. Compassion will keep you safe, and it will bring you home, no matter where you are.


	80. Chapter 79 - Safe Passage

_Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to heaven._

 _Charles Dickens  
_ _"The Old Curiosity Shop"_

* * *

 ** _Evening, a few days earlier. Sonora, California, December 5, 1874_**

 _"There is a way, from there. It's not easy - might be impossible in this weather, but there is a way."_

 _Mills approached the table and drew it out for them._

 _"Where would they end up, James?" Jarrod asked quietly._

 _"Probably near Eagle Peak. Buckeye, maybe, or Twin Lakes."_

 _Jarrod nodded with the look of a man who had made a decision. He crossed the room and put a hand on Jed's shoulder. "Jed," he said, for the young man's ears alone, "you and I need to talk."_

* * *

Jarrod pulled the collar of his winter coat closer around his neck as he hurried up the empty main street of Sonora. Weather was rolling in from the coast. The wind was getting fierce – and cold. He was bone-aching tired from this most recent run up into the mountains, far more from the mental stress than the horse trekking itself, though that took its toll as well. He hated to imagine what Heath and Teleli would be battling through, ill-equipped as they were, wounded, and scrambling for cover as the wind and snow came roaring in. Up there, Jarrod knew, up high above the tree line, nothing stood between you and the full weight and power of the western ocean, should she decide to charge inland and storm the walls of the Sierra.

 _Scrambling for cover – if any could be reached in time. And then what? Any shelter up there could become a tomb, buried by avalanche or snow drift._ Jarrod kept 'listening' inside himself for some clue as to his brother's fate. He kept tapping and spinning that internal weathervane, looking for some sign of life – or death. The only comfort he found was the thought that if Heath was dead, Jarrod felt he would know somehow. That was thin comfort, indeed.

He shouldered open the door of the mostly-empty saloon, and quickly pushed it closed behind him as the wind tried to follow him into the dim, dusty room. He removed his hat and unbuttoned his coat with a sigh of relief. Shoving his leather gloves in a pocket, he tossed a coin on the bar, and collected two glasses of whiskey.

Jed was seated at a table against the wall in a dim back corner of the room. His hat was tipped down over his eyes, his booted legs were stretched out in front of him, comfortably crossed at the ankle, and he appeared to be fast asleep. Jarrod shook his head with a slight smile. He and John had made similar observations about this young deputy marshal. Without any apparent effort, Jed was swift (on foot or horseback), tireless, and almost supernaturally stealthy. When he wasn't on the move, however, he was the embodiment of stillness; catlike, he seemed to be able to drop off to sleep and wake up at will. Jarrod couldn't help but imagine what challenges Jed had presented to any schoolteacher who tried to educate him in a classroom.

Jed roused as Jarrod placed the two whiskeys on the table and took a seat across from him. He nodded in greeting and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He seemed fully awake and ready to listen to what Jarrod had to say. He didn't say much, Montana was right about that – but he was attentive and observant, and, Jarrod suspected, intelligent.

He was a handsome man, no one would dispute that. He was young and healthy; his features were regular and well-defined. There was, however, something unusual about him. _Was it his coloring_? Jarrod wondered. Jed was dark-skinned, darker even than Raul Montana, whose heritage was Spanish and Mexican. Jarrod imagined that in the midsummer sun Jed could grow dark enough to raise a few questions as to his race. His eyes were wide set and hooded over prominent cheekbones; this facial structure, together with his dark skin, strongly suggested some Indian ancestry. His eyes, however, and his short, rough-cut hair were both of a wheat-gold color. He reminded Jarrod of nothing so much as a mountain lion.

"I appreciate you meeting me, Jed," Jarrod began, speaking carefully. "I and my family could use your help, but if there's anything in what I'm suggesting that you aren't comfortable with or feel you can't do, please say so."

Jed nodded and gestured with his whiskey glass for Jarrod to continue.

"I have some documents I want you to bring to my brother Heath, if you can find him, and bring me back his response. That is, if you can think of some way to do that without arresting him or Teleli, and without compromising yourself as a deputy marshal -" Jarrod paused, suddenly unsure. He was placing an inordinate amount of trust in this teenager, for reasons that were not entirely clear to him. Not only that, he realized: he was asking the boy to take a serious personal and professional risk on behalf of the Barkley family. Jarrod admonished himself to think of another option, and proceeded to let Jed off the hook. "If not, well, I wouldn't be surprised. It's a bit of a crazy request. I should just go after him myself."

"If you do that, Jarrod, who's gonna go to Sacramento to twist the Governor's arm? You can't be everywhere."

Jarrod raised his eyebrows. _This kid doesn't miss much._ "Why would **_you_** be willing, Jed? Could be a hell of a long trek, and it could – maybe – get you in trouble. With Montana, for starters."

Jed drained his glass of whiskey and set it deliberately down on the tabletop. He did not answer immediately, but instead rested the knuckles of one hand against his mouth and regarded the glass thoughtfully, as if it were inscribed with words of great importance. Something in his posture tugged at a sadness in Jarrod. He wondered briefly about it before he pushed the feeling aside. _I'm just tired, and worried, and wishing I had a better way to handle this -_

"I don't know Heath," Jed said simply. "I can see who _you_ are, though, and what you're trying to do. I know whose side I'm on." He nodded to himself. "Mainly it's because of Raul. He feels for Teleli. He knows why they want to hang him. But he also knows it's his job to bring him in if he can. If I can do something to help you get Teleli and Heath in the clear, that'd take a weight off of Raul's mind."

"He calls you his 'experienced guy'. How long have you been his deputy?"

Jed chuckled. "Well…officially only a year. He wouldn't let me swear in until I was 18."

"And before that?"

"I been tagging after Raul since I was about 13. He kinda adopted me when my folks died. Unofficial-like. Or maybe I adopted him. Hard to say which."

"Who were your folks – if you don't mind me asking?"

"Hiram and Abigail Brown. They both died of a fever, just a few days apart, back in the winter of '68." His expression was fond, and sad, as he spoke of them. He leaned back, seeming to have said all he intended to on that subject.

Jarrod did not press, but neither did he take the opening to move on to other topics. He wasn't the only Barkley who knew how to stay quiet, when it seemed useful to do so.

Jed studied the older man, wondering himself why Jarrod was willing to trust him with such an important family matter. _Makes sense he'd want to know where I come from,_ he thought.

"Hiram and Abigail raised me from a baby," he offered. "I have their last name, but my first name – Jeremiah – that was from my mother."

Jarrod nodded. A picture was beginning to take shape.

Jed watched Jarrod begin to speculate, and decided to save them both some time. _Better to know now whether there's going to be a problem, before we shake on this._

"My folks were Quakers. My father was a farrier, did some tool-smithing for the mines. My Mama – Abigail, that is – was a midwife. She delivered me. She took care of a lot of the unmarried women around here, as the mines were booming - the working women – you know." He paused to make sure Jarrod understood. "My birth mother was one of those, here in Sonora - made a living as a dancer and in the saloon.

"Her name was Salome. She didn't have a family name. She was dark, and very beautiful, and she loved to laugh. Mama figured she was probably a runaway, but never pressed her to say so. Salome told people she was Creole, but my Mama always thought she was at least part Indian, and part Negro, of course, and part - who knows." Jed spoke without any note of disdain or shame. "She wanted to learn to be a midwife. After I was born she'd assist my Mama whenever she could. About a year later, she got very sick in her belly and died. I don't remember any of that. My folks – the Browns – they took me in right off and raised me as their own. Mama always made sure to tell me how much my birth mother loved me.

"Wasn't easy on my folks, but it wasn't terrible either. Pa lost some business, but a mining town needs a farrier, so he got by. Mama - well, what she did was more of a ministry than a way of making a living. She didn't care much about what folks thought of her raising a dark-skinned, mix-breed baby. As far as the town was concerned, it wasn't so much that they saw my folks as sinful. They just thought they were shameless to take a boy like me in as family, and not just as a houseboy or a servant."

"And what about you? As far as the town was concerned."

Jed shrugged. "Wasn't easy, wasn't terrible. Your half-brother would know a bit about that. They were good people, my folks. Raul was one of their closest friends. He was always around when I was a kid, especially after his wife died, years and years ago. He didn't have any children, and my folks couldn't have any, even though they tried," he smiled fondly, "so they all three did their level best to ride herd on me. Can't fault 'em for tryin'."

"Maybe that's how you learned to be so fast and stealthy, Jed. Angling for freedom from an excess of parents."

Jed laughed. "That's a good theory, counselor. You got me doin' way too much talking." He leaned back again and regarded Jarrod silently. He could see the older man was troubled.

Jarrod had spoken lightly, but he again felt that tug of sadness and disappointment. There was much about Jed that put him in mind of his brother Heath. At that moment, though, what struck him was the feeling that Jed had reached manhood relatively unharmed, despite circumstances of birth that could easily have condemned him to a terrible fate. It was jealousy, Jarrod abruptly realized. He was jealous for his brother Heath's sake. He felt the loss of childhood that each of his brother's scars represented, and he felt angry and deeply disappointed by his own father's cowardice.

 _Jed's father was just as absent, just as cowardly, whoever he was,_ Jarrod thought tiredly. _Heath came to us by a different road. Different trials, different treasures._ Remembering Haja's words helped him feel a little easier, for the moment, anyway.

Jed stood and settled his hat on his head. Jarrod rose and shook the deputy's hand, his expression still preoccupied.

"I'll do my best to take care of your errand," Jed offered. "You have to go to Sacramento, 'cause you're the only one who can get that piece done. But your brother needs more than that to get home – you know that, sure as I'm standin' here. He doesn't need someone he never knew. He needs you. He needs his family."


	81. Chapter 80 - Circling In

_Three temptations he met on those dark dunes that lay gray and dismal before the wonder-eyes of the child: the temptation of Hate, that stood out against the red dawn; the temptation of Despair, that darkened noonday; and the temptation of Doubt, that ever steals along with twilight._

 _"The Souls of Black Folk"_  
 _W.E.B Du Bois_

* * *

 ** _Twilight, Buckeye Canyon, December 8, 1874_**

The storm had retreated to the highest altitudes. It still pummeled the ridges above the timberline, cloaked in the dark gray of swirling, frozen moisture. They rumbled, still, and roared from time to time, as one snowfield or another would yield to wind and gravity and crash down into the high valleys. Inside their rock-and-thatch shelter, Teleli knelt to stir the fire and listened to the mountains' sounds of restless violence. He was acutely aware of the relative hush and safety of this canyon to which Me'weh had steered them.

The high country in winter frightened Teleli. For uncounted millennia, his people had moved with relative ease through these generous mountains, always able to shift their focus and their activity to suit the seasons. In the span of one embattled generation, Teleli and his people had been forced to learn to travel, hide, and survive across higher, harsher, and more remote terrain than they ever would have considered during the winter season. If they were unable to learn this, they died, or were confined to a reservation. Teleli and his band had become quite proficient at such a lifestyle, but they had none of the comforts of ancestral knowledge, skill and history to guide and strengthen them as they struggled to survive the encroachment of the White men.

On a deep, gut level, Teleli knew it was madness to try to forage and fight against the icy crush of winter at these altitudes, as Me'weh and he were doing. It felt all wrong, and his ancestors were silent. They had no wisdom or reassurance to offer him, and he felt their absence in his bones. They could not say, _All will be well, child, do not fear. We lived through that and so will you._ Teleli yearned for that reassurance, almost as much as he yearned for his wife and children. He ached for the feeling he had as a young boy, learning with Papati: the sense of presence of all who came before, sharing their wisdom, moving into the future at his side. What did his ancestors know of the madness of the world in which he now lived? Who could tell him all would be well? Not to fear?

The fire flared up as Teleli added some fuel. As if in response to the pulse of light and heat that resulted, Me'weh groaned and moved restlessly, rolling to his stomach and seeming to try to push himself up to his hands and knees. Teleli watched, and wondered where Me'weh was now in his spirit.

All through the previous night and all through the day, Teleli had sung his songs and meditated. He would periodically take necessary breaks to rest from the intense concentration, during which he would prepare his medicines and tend to their shelter. In his mind, as he chanted, Teleli danced a ghost dance that encircled Me'weh's spirit and his own. He was seeking strength and healing for them both. He sang and called up the energy of the mountain and the spring and his ancestors.

As had happened many times in the past, as he entered fully into the dance, visions and feelings came to him. He knew from experience these could sometimes be enlightening or useful, and sometimes not; sometimes peaceful, and sometimes painful or frankly terrifying.

There was something different with this dance, however. There was that same deep rhythm, the images and emotions rising and falling like waves, but Teleli was certain now the visions that filled his mind were not entirely his. He accepted this, and knew that some of what he was experiencing came from Me'weh. It made sense to him that such a connection would occur, given the focus of his meditation; the nature of their shared experiences, past and present; and the stress of their current situation.

 _Stay quiet and open. Quiet and open. Learn from what comes; peaceful or terrible, it is always best to understand._

What he had learned of Me'weh's history after Sutamasina had been told to him by Rivka, and so he already had a sense of both the facts and the meaning of those events. Now, however, his understanding went far deeper. Demons swam up out a darkness that he and Me'weh shared, and he could feel his own fear, anger, and doubt rising close at hand. Teleli could see they had reached a point in this ghost dance that was dangerous for them both.

"I failed you," he heard Me'weh murmur. His voice was desolate and unforgiving. "I failed you, after everything you fought through. I gave up. I wasn't strong enough to keep that creature away -" He had pushed himself up off the stony ground, and now he crouched, staring into the flames. He was winded, and unsteady; the firelight danced over his wet skin, so that he looked as though he might burst into flames himself.

Teleli thought he knew who – or what – Me'weh saw in those leaping flames. "It is not strength you need, Me'weh," Teleli spoke softly from where he knelt by the fire. "That creature is a part of you too. Can you hold on to yourself?"

He heard Me'weh's sharp intake of breath at his words; he felt the struggle intensifying.

Me'weh spoke in a hollow, distant voice.

"If I kill him, will I be free?"

Surprised, Teleli looked up, and immediately went very still. A shiver of fear ran over his skin. _Here it is,_ he thought. _Here is the battle._ The sky-colored eyes had found a target, and they were staring right at him.


	82. Chapter 81 - The Thing With Feathers

_Hope is the thing with feathers  
_ _That perches in the soul,  
_ _And sings the tune without the words,  
_ _And never stops at all,_

 _And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
_ _And sore must be the storm  
_ _That could abash the little bird  
_ _That kept so many warm._

 _I've heard it in the chillest land,  
_ _And on the strangest sea;  
_ _Yet, never, in extremity,  
_ _It asked a crumb of me._

 _Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)_

* * *

 ** _City Hotel, Sonora, California, December 6, 1874_**

"I believe Heath is doing everything he possibly can to find a way to come home. I think – if my hunch is right, if I can contact him – I think I can at least help keep him safe until he does."

Victoria could hear the earnest devotion and concern in her oldest son's voice, and knew he had thought long and hard about how best to help his missing brother. She heard Nick stepping in to argue with Jarrod; she would have been surprised if he hadn't. She turned away to sit once more at the bedside. She picked up John's warm, calloused hand, the shape and touch of which seemed already as familiar and necessary to her as her own. She shuddered slightly as she remembered seeing his saddled horse with no rider, and the swelling, sick fear she had felt as she began running toward the wagon in which he lay.

Behind her, Nick was berating Jarrod for his lack of explanations. When Nick would allow him to respond, Jarrod offered only that **_if_** he managed to establish a credible attorney-client relationship with both Heath and Teleli, he could then maintain a line of communication with them that would be protected and confidential. If he shared any of the specifics with the family, he explained, that protection would be void.

"Well, **_if_** you establish your **_line of communication,_** Jarrod, what are you going to tell him to do?" Nick was demanding.

"Nick, you're not listening -"

Victoria kept her attention on John, letting her two sons finish out their argument on their own. He was sleeping now, but feverish still, his brow slightly furrowed. John was here, but Heath was not. Heath might be dead. At best, he was badly wounded in both his body and his mind, and he was far from home.

 _Rivka,_ she thought. Audra's tearful words came back to her.

 _"Did you know Rivka is getting medical supplies together to go back down to the camp? She said there was still so much to do there before she had to go back to San Francisco, and she said it was the only thing she could think of to do - to stop – to stop crying."_

The need to go to her was suddenly urgent. _I know what you are feeling, Rivka. This time, I do._

"Audra, where is Rivka now?"

"She's probably back at the livery with Moshe. He was going to go with her tomorrow to bring the supplies down to the camp."

Victoria looked down at John once more and gently felt his brow for fever. She leaned down and kissed him, and he murmured her name without fully waking.

"Jarrod, can you stay with John? I want to go to the livery."

"Certainly, Mother. But bundle up, it's cold and windy out there. And it's getting dark – Nick, you go with her."

"I'm going too," said Audra.

* * *

The streets of Sonora were virtually deserted as the three hurried toward the livery. As the sun set, the temperature dropped to hover at the freezing mark. The bursts of wind-driven rain became stinging sleet, and then snow. The ground, unfortunately, did not freeze as readily, and the road was a treacherous field of cold, slippery mud. Nick kept a firm arm around both his mother and his sister as they crossed Washington Street. The livery, well-lit and occupied, was a welcome sight made even more inviting by the ethereal sound of a violin coming from within.

Moshe waved a welcome as they entered. They knocked the mud from their boots and shook off the snow before they approached the warm corner of the barn where Moshe had parked his wagon. Moshe's reliable mule was stabled on the far side of the barn with the Barkley mounts, but Nox stood untethered close at hand. Victoria smiled to see the sense of home the violinist had created: there were hay bales circled in beside the wagon for seating, a few lanterns, and a small potbelly stove at a safe distance, providing warmth and hot water for tea.

Rivka was sitting by Moshe. She would smile as he talked with her in Yiddish, but she looked very sad, and she leaned into him as he put a comforting arm around her shoulders. They were both watching Peter and Ilsa and the baby, as Peter learned to change a diaper, coached by Ilsa, who had only learned the day before. Ilsa's laughter – at herself, at Peter, at the baby – was infectious and inviting, and Victoria was glad to see Rivka's expression brighten in response. She and Nick and Audra settled in to visit, placing the baskets of food and treats they had brought beside them on the planked floor.

Nox stood close and towered over the new family where they sat on hay bales and blankets. She periodically would drop her head down to check on the baby and her two beloved people, as if sheltering them with the voluminous dark curtain of her mane. Ilsa, her eyes bright, ran her hands through Peter's unruly hair as he concentrated on swaddling the baby. She snuggled up close behind him and helped him settle the sleeping infant securely in the crook of his injured left arm. Then, to his surprise, she placed the violin bow in his right hand. She lifted the Guarneri violin and settled it under Peter's chin, her left hand gracefully outstretched and supporting the neck of the instrument.

Moshe raised his eyebrows, but smiled, winked at Rivka, and stayed silent.

The violin glowed like burnished copper in the lamplight. Ilsa's face was close beside Peter's at his left shoulder, and as he turned his head to look at her, questioning, their eyes met for a long, joyous moment.

"What shall we play, my love?" he whispered.

A few tears spilled down her cheeks, but there was a playful smile now on both their faces.

"Vitali's _Chaconne_."

Moshe could not help but laugh. " ** _Chaconne_**? Of course, of course, something _easy_ you wouldn't pick for such an experiment."

"Moshe," Ilsa countered, her smiling eyes never leaving her husband's, "you haven't seen Peter play. He's always had a better bow hold than me." She moved her left hand into position, as Peter lifted the bow to the strings. "This is going to be fine. Of course," she giggled, "we're both a bit out of practice, and we've never done **_this_** before."

There was a pause. Peter inhaled to mark the start and brought the bow to the strings. The Guarneri sang, and the melody of the dance, so joyous and so mournful, blossomed to fill the rustic building with light and life and warmth.

The experiment had a few rough spots - tripped up by several measures of rapid double-stops, Peter and Ilsa were tripped up still further by their laughter - but on the whole it was beautiful, and the closing notes were near perfect. Rivka was smiling and quietly weeping again, remembering her dance in Heath's arms around the campfire. Moshe was happily scolding the couple for showing off, and Victoria and Audra were speechless with admiration.

Nick leaned over to his sister and mother, warmly hugging them both and saying, "Will you look at that. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, everybody."

"Yes. Yes, it is a miracle. A blessing. And the result of bravery, skill, faith, and love from all of you." Victoria felt her throat tighten again with tears, as she wished for the thousandth time that Heath was here with them. She saw the anguish in Rivka's eyes, and she hurried over to put her arms around her shoulders. Rivka returned the embrace with a shaky sigh and a grateful smile.

Audra leaned into Nick's warm shoulder for comfort, and asked, "Peter, Ilsa – have you chosen a name for the baby?"

"Yes," Peter said, smiling at Ilsa. "Tikva. Her name is Tikva." He looked up at Rivka and Moshe, and then at Victoria, Audra, and Nick, his eyes full of gratitude. "It is Hebrew for Hope. All we had was hope, for what seemed like forever. Audra had hope – she acted on that hope. She helped Nox, and she came looking for us. **_All_** of you helped bring us home, back together – our family – which now includes you, Moshe."

Moshe leaned toward Rivka, making a comment in Yiddish that made her laugh.

"We can _understand_ you, Moshe," Ilsa warned him with a grin. "Mostly. And no, it's not because you can also play cello and viola. Though that _would_ come in handy," she commented aside to Peter, who concurred. She rounded back on Moshe. "No - Moshe, you are stuck with us. Family."

Moshe beamed, sniffed, wiped his eyes, and did not argue.

Ilsa looked at Rivka. "You brought our Tikva into the world, and we will be always thankful to you, for your skill, and for staying with me – you saved both of our lives. I know what you are suffering now – we both do. We are praying for you, Rivka, for Heath to make it safely home to you. Do not despair. Hope."


	83. Chapter 82 - Balm in Gilead

_But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be - a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself._

 _Mary Shelley, "Frankenstein"_

 _There is a balm in Gilead_

 _To make the wounded whole;_

 _There is a balm in Gilead_

 _To heal the sin-sick soul._

 _Traditional Negro Spiritual_

 ** _Buckeye Canyon, Sierra Nevada, Midnight, December 9, 1874_**

Teleli moved carefully back from the small campfire, kneeling still, his eyes never leaving his companion's face. Me'weh rose unsteadily to his feet. He was barefoot and bare-chested, Teleli having removed his shirt and boots in order to tend to his multiple injuries, and to repair the clothing as best he could. His left arm Teleli had strapped securely across his torso in a bent position, in order to protect his unstable elbow. His right arm hung loose at his side; that hand gradually clenched into a fist as he struggled to straighten up fully. The pale eyes that stared down at Teleli were unwavering, questioning, fatal.

 _No longer blind,_ Teleli thought. _Now he sees what we have called up in the dance._

" _Would I be free?_ " Me'weh demanded again, the rasp of his voice growing stronger. He took a limping step toward the shadowed, scarred man he saw kneeling in the firelight.

"No," Teleli answered, keeping his voice low and level with an effort. His mouth was dry, and he could feel his hands shaking. He stood, slowly.

He did not fear death, or even injury, at that moment. What he feared most was the echo of Me'weh's question in his own soul, and the answering call of his own host of demons and nightmares, still restless and easy to summon. He had to stay steady, stay balanced, he thought, or they might both be lost.

 _He had just turned seven years old. He held back tears as he rode in front of one of his uncles as they escaped back up into the mountains. He wanted to weep with the pain of the lash that set his back on fire, a punishment he had received regularly over the past year, since he'd become old enough to be put to work on the ranchero. He wanted to howl with grief for his mother and sister, cut down by bullets as they all tried to escape. He kept seeing them fall, again, and again; he heard them telling him to run, their voices cut off by gunfire. His father had snatched him up as he squeezed through the fencing. He had tossed him to his uncle, and they had fled. As they climbed into the dark hills, his father raged at the failure of their raid, so ravaged by grief and anger at the loss of his wife that he could not spare a look or an embrace for the son he did recover._

"No, Me'weh. Not free."

 _He remembered the night of the burning. He ran, alone, terrified that he would find Husu and Me'weh dead in the charred ruin of Sutamasina. He ran, passing the living and the dead of his people, all fleeing in the other direction. The smell of smoke and death and gunpowder filled the air; even worse, somehow, was the smell of burning acorns, as the scalp hunters set fire to every chakka they could find. So much death. Bodies lay as far as he could see into the forest…_

"Why not?" Me'weh moved toward him, a rage rising behind his eyes. " _Why not?_ Why should I let you live? You are a plague on everyone I ever cared about. They gave me love and loyalty and you - you gave up. You've earned it to die. Notaku was right. Risley was right. Morgan was right. My Uncle Matt was right. You are a curse. They're better off without you. They're all better off."

Teleli backed up as Me'weh advanced, keeping a distance between them. They circled the smoldering fire, one dark, one light. The dance had a strong hold on them both, just then, and Teleli felt himself pulled deep into the vision that Me'weh had in his sight. Words rose in him and he gave them voice. " ** _I_** am a curse, Me'weh? **_I_** am weak ** _? You_** gave up on **_me_**."

He attacked faster than Teleli thought possible. Even one-handed, Me'weh struck him and pinned him to the floor by his throat before Teleli had time to think what was happening. He blinked, trying to clear his spinning head, and struggled to suck in a breath of air. As his vision cleared, he felt the grip tighten on his throat and saw the lethal blue eyes inches from his own.

 _Me'weh – they took your childhood and trained you to be a killer, that is clear. That is where Morgan sent you. For that crime alone, I think he earned it to die._

 _That justice was done. What of the man, now?_

"You gave up on **_me_** , Me'weh," he repeated, more gently now, his eyes watering from the painful pressure on his throat. "I carry your scars. I lived through it all. I was all that was left of you after that demon Linceul. I survived, broken and twisted like a lightning-blasted tree. I held on, so life could return. You need me, Me'weh. I am part of you."

"Stop - stop calling me that -" he husked, frowning, as confusion and sadness began to dilute the icy rage in his eyes. "That's not my name -"

"I know it's not your given name, Heath," Teleli said calmly. "It is the name Husu gave you, out of the caring of his heart, and because you fell out of the trees. You kept the name, all these years, because of the love and care you gave back to us, even hurt and lost as you were."

Me'weh was looking down at Teleli now with an expression of remorse, and exhaustion; he let go of his throat and backed away. "I'm - I'm sorry - I thought you were - I don't know what I was thinking -"

"Can you hold on to yourself, Me'weh?"

The question, returning again with even more force, seemed to startle him. "How – how did you -?" He swallowed convulsively; breathless, he was staring at Teleli as though seeing him for the first time. "Who –"

 _Not me. He sees the not-dead man._

"This creature is battered and scarred because he sheltered you, Me'weh. He carried you through hell and out the other side. He sank roots deep in the ground to hold on to life. Would you cut him down and leave him to die in the desert, thinking you can travel faster on your own?

"You know that feels wrong. You know it, and the more you try to kill him off, the crazier you feel. You see this. You **_know_** this. Hold on to him, and you might have a chance to come back to yourself, to your family. Kill him, Me'weh, and you will never be free. You will be lost."


	84. Chapter 83 - Kaleidoscope

_Amazing Grace  
_ _How sweet the sound  
_ _That saved a wretch  
_ _Like me  
_ _I once was lost  
_ _But now I'm found  
_ _Was blind  
_ _But now  
_ _I see_

 _Amazing Grace, Traditional_

* * *

 _If I am not for myself, who will be for me?  
_ _But if I am only for myself, who am I?  
_ _If not now, when?_

 _Hillel the Elder (b. 110 BCE), Pirkeh Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), 1:14_

* * *

 ** _Carterson Prison, November 1864_**

Heath had left Linceul to exsanguinate on his own bed, a shiv buried in his neck. With shaking, blood-covered hands, he had found the commander's keys; he had unlocked the shackles that for weeks had chained him at the mercy of a soulless demon. Heath had slid under the tent flap and tried to crawl away.

He didn't get far. He collapsed in the drainage ditch behind the commander's tent. PFC Samuel Green, a Confederate guard, was waiting for him. He lifted Heath out of the dirt, and brought him over to a trough to rinse off the blood.

It was a foggy night, and the moving, all-encompassing mist concealed the two men from observation. Linceul had not confined his appetite for torment to his Union Army prisoners; he had hunted among his own soldiers and staff as well. Sam had given Heath the weapon for exactly the purpose for which it had been used, and now Sam needed to get the both of them away from the scene of the killing.

Heath's strength was gone. He couldn't stand and walk, he couldn't speak - he could barely remember where he was. He gave himself up to Sam's simple presence and his native physical strength. Sam carried him to the brig, locked him up, and waited for dawn.

The alarm was raised. The rising sun ignited the silent sky over the rocky New Mexico terrain in a wash of orange, pink and gold, burning away the last wisps of moisture hovering over the ground. The commander was dead, murdered in his own tent, and the sense of relief throughout the camp was palpable. A disciplinary and investigative response was, of course, necessary. This commenced, half-heartedly, later in the morning. Green swore to his officers that the Thomson inmate had been in the brig since before his shift started yesterday.

"- and besides, look at 'im. He's more dead 'n alive. Can't even lift up his head, much less _stab_ someone."

"Well get 'im outta here. He can go die with his own men."

Sam carried Heath back to his unit. The kid wasn't big to begin with, but he seemed weightless now, and far, far too young. Sam had tears on his face by the time he laid him down in the shade of the adobe walls. The other soldiers of Thomson's imprisoned unit looked on, faces reflecting the numb horror that had become their daily state of mind.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, soberly. He thought it unlikely the boy would survive, as malnourished and beaten up as he was. "I'll do what I can to help – some extra rations, you know, or some liniment -"

The inmates – men of the 5th US Infantry and their sharpshooter/recon team, who had so far survived ambush, capture, and incarceration - closed protectively around the boy soldier and tried to tend to him as best they could. A husky, redheaded inmate met Sam's mournful gaze with a look full of pain and fear of loss. Still, he clapped the Confederate guard once on the shoulder and gave him a somber nod.

"Thanks, Sam," he said, gruffly. Then he turned away to tend to his dying friend.

Heath had only a foggy, inconsistent recollection of events following his murder of Commander Linceul. The act itself was vivid in his mind. It seemed indelibly burned into his memory, in fact; every sensation and every image of that moment kept repeating and repeating in his body and behind his eyelids. He felt it and saw it all, again and again; it was his mind's desperate effort to prove to himself that Linceul really **_was_** dead.

It wasn't working. Linceul was not dead. The commander roamed freely through Heath's mind, gleefully carrying on his torture, unfettered by the limitations of mortal flesh.

Sunset came, and each night, with that concealment, came two female voices that moved gently around him, with a touch that eased his pain, broth that eased his thirst. Slowly, slowly, they allowed him some food. It was a dreadfully painful, sickening process. His body struggled to make use of even the little bit of support and nourishment they could give him.

Evening. His eyes opened and he understood his _where_ and _when_. It was not yet full dark. For the moment, he was alone, but for the demon.

 _They trained you to kill, boy,_ the voice murmured _. You do **that** well, at least_. _Not much else you're useful for, is there. Not anymore._

 _Except to be mine_. _You can always be mine._

The demon laughed, whispered, and slipped his hand into every touch and sensation, whether good or bad, pleasant or painful.

Heath could see **_himself_** , now, as well. In the hazy, fading red glow of the sunset, the sight flooded his mind and drowned him in horror.

He was barely more than a corpse; he was toxic; he was the contaminated remnants of the monster's last meal. Panicked and sickened, he tried to drag himself away, in a futile, irrational effort to escape the carcass that he had become.

When night fell, Hadassah and Rivka found him not far from his bedroll, curled up near the wall as if he were trying to hide. He cringed away from them as they approached. Delirious, he warned them away. Hadassah swept aside his resistance with the combined authority of physician and loving mother, and got him back into bed. Rivka hovered beside him while her mother prepared some broth.

Rivka saw the horror and shame in his eyes. She could see what the monster had done to the boy she loved. Heath turned his face away from her and closed his eyes, his desire to _disappear_ as obvious to her as if he had yelled it aloud. She too had felt nauseated horror the morning Green brought Heath back to them. He was a skeleton, a broken puppet in Sam's burly but careful arms. Rivka had acknowledged her reaction as foolishness, and it quickly passed. The shame she saw in Heath, though - **_that_** filled her 12-year-old mind with a powerful, righteous rage for the horror that had been done to him. She would not let him disappear; not from her; not ever.

On impulse, then, Rivka put her arms around Heath and pulled him close. She felt him stiffen, as if to push her away, but Rivka was tall for her age and her arms were long; she was strong (even if she was skinny); and she was stubborn. She hugged him even tighter, talking the whole time about how she missed him terribly, and how they could make a chess set out of rocks so they could play, and how the twins wanted so badly to wrestle with him, so he had to get his strength back. Rivka held him and talked to _him_ , and would not let go. Gradually, he relaxed; gradually, he returned the embrace. He wrapped his arms around her and turned to hide his face in her long brown hair; from time to time he murmured her name, like a prayer that would bring him home.

 ** _Buckeye Canyon, Sierra Nevada, near dawn, December 9, 1874_**

"Lost –?" Me'weh had taken another staggering step backwards, his eyes distant and searching as he took in Teleli's words. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Not lost – Hannah said -"

Teleli kept still, feeling the warm, sage-smoked air of the shelter move over his skin. " _Heath_ ," he said, clearly. "Look at me."

Me'weh focused on him, startled, eyes wide.

Deep inside the vision, Heath no longer saw Teleli. He saw again the scarred, shadowed creature, but as the firelight danced around them, the creature became a dying, broken soldier boy. He was a horrible sight to see, and Heath felt an echo of fear and revulsion tighten in his throat.

 _Rivka,_ he thought. _I remember. I remember._

 _All those weeks, before I killed him, I was alone. Alone, with him. I wanted to die. I wanted to be done, to be gone – I wanted it all to be over. I thought I could never come back, no matter what happened. I thought I could never be near anyone ever again. I had brought the horror on myself. It would always follow me, find me. I would never be clean again, from – from what he -_

Teleli saw the fear tighten around him; then he saw Me-weh shake it off with some impatience. _That is good,_ he thought.

 _I kept living – I made myself hold on, even though I couldn't remember why – I couldn't remember, until you put your arms around me and wouldn't let go -_

Rivka, age 12, stood by the gruesome soldier boy, and turned to look at Heath, her eyes bright with tears.

"What are you afraid of, Heath? **_Look_** at him. Who is going to bring him home, if you don't? **_Who_**?"

Teleli saw Me'weh try to step forward and close the distance between them. He managed two steps before his strength and balance began to fail completely. He stumbled, and before he could fall sideways into the fire, Teleli leaped forward to get an arm around him and ease him more safely to the ground.

They sat for a while like that, shoulder to shoulder, while the fire crackled and the wind whispered. Teleli could feel the energy of the dance spinning down, letting go of them, and sinking back down into the bones of the earth. Me'weh seemed to sense the letting go as well; he took another deep breath and hung his head in exhaustion.

"Me'weh."

"Mm-hm?" came the grunted reply. Heath was staring at the mossy ground between his two bare feet.

"Can you tell me what you saw?"

"Hmm," he grunted again. "I saw – I saw that I can -" He paused, and looked up again at the now-empty space beside the fire. "I saw - myself." He gaze went to the fire now, and the spiraling tendrils of smoke that rose from the ritual sticks. He grinned slightly. "I also can see the smell of the sage you are burning. The sound of the fire has a color that shoots up like sparks. The water in the hot spring is humming a song I've never heard before."

"Hmm." Teleli grunted noncommittally, seeming to find nothing odd in what his companion had said.

Heath glanced at him sidelong, then went back to studying the ground between his feet. The moss and stone – if he watched closely enough – looked like a forest on a vast rocky plain, viewed from an impossible height. He kept watching, and soon became absorbed in the shifting, kaleidoscopic movement of the granite as it refracted light from the fire. He found if he concentrated, he could shape the swirling surface into any pattern he chose.

With an effort, he extracted his attention from this novel but mesmerizing plasticity of his senses, and turned to look suspiciously at Teleli. Teleli looked back at him with a placid expression of innocence.

"Well -?"

"What, Me'weh?"

"What did you – I mean, why am I -"

"In the morning, Me'weh. Right now, I think you should go soak in that hot water over there. I'll unwrap your arm and help you. Get yourself clean, eat something, sleep. Talking can wait."


	85. Chapter 84 - Absolution

_Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string._

 _Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"_

* * *

 ** _Buckeye Creek Canyon, Sunrise, December 9, 1874_**

Heath surfaced from a deep, miraculously dreamless sleep, immediately aware of a change in the weather outside the shelter. He lay still for a moment, listening. There was a wind, but it was steady and gentle; a warm, dry breath of air moved up the canyon, bearing the faint aroma of high desert sage and sun-baked sand.

He sat up slowly, wincing as the movement sparked fiery lines of pain that wrapped around his torso. He took a careful breath in as he straightened, testing the initial limits on his movement. He raked one hand through his hair. It was short, and clean. That surprised him; he realized, with a slightly queasy feeling of disorientation, that he had been expecting it to be as long and filthy as it had been in Carterson. A glance over at Teleli showed the Indian to be fast asleep under a deerskin cloak. Looking down at himself, Heath concluded he was pretty well a mess, but looked to be healing up, all things considered; he didn't feel feverish, but he was thirsty, and ravenously hungry.

His left arm was once again snugly bound up in a sling. He decided he would defer to Teleli's doctoring and leave that be for now. He shuddered slightly when he realized he had been wrapped in Morgan's blue wool cloak. He pushed it off his legs, then scooted himself one-handed over to the saddle and other gear that Teleli had piled off to one side. He figured he wouldn't tackle standing up until he'd found a shirt and his boots, and had a chance to see what kind of supplies were in Charger's saddlebags.

He discovered some spare clothing, but given the sling and the still-open lacerations over his chest, he decided it was better to skip the clean shirt for now. He awkwardly shrugged into his bloodstained shearling coat instead, pulling it over his left shoulder and using the sole remaining button to hold it closed. He ran a hand over the breast pocket, and felt a twist of regret and shame as he remembered the Deputy Marshal star John had given him, and that Nick had pinned onto the jacket. Both men had expressed their faith in him. Heath had no memory of where or how the star had been lost, or the exact moment he lost his hold on the responsibility with which he had been entrusted – but he had lost them both, that was a fact. On the heels of that thought came the image of John falling under Morgan's sabre, and Heath prayed the marshal was safely back with the family and recovering.

He managed, ungracefully, to get his socks and boots on. The next bundle Heath pulled from the bags contained exactly the items he sought, and the discovery brought sudden tears to his eyes.

 _Audra packed all of this, I'm sure of it. I can just picture her facing off with Nick and informing him that she was going out with him to look for me._

She had put together a compact, functional grooming kit for Charger, including a brush and comb, some basic hoof cleaning and trimming tools, some vials of liniment and oil, and of course, a few chunks of sugar as a treat for the horse. He put the bundle in his coat pocket, drew the bow and quiver of arrows out of the saddle scabbard, and then got himself laboriously but quietly to his feet.

He limped outside into the dim, predawn hush of the east-facing canyon. Looking up west, the peaks of the Sierra were already touched by the rising sun, the snowfields blazing white against a clear sky. Down in their mountain valley, it was still dusk. The warm air and melting snow had already prompted a blush of fresh green along the banks of the creek. Steam wafted up from the hot springs under the rock outcroppings, and the air seemed washed with a deep lavender hue. Heath breathed it in, and stopped to listen once again.

Heath listened inside himself, this time, and he heard - - silence. No screaming. No whispering voices. No gunfire, no growling dogs, no whistling crack of the lash. No whiskey-soaked laughter. Just silence. He swallowed and turned slowly to look up toward the mountain peaks. He scanned the cold, rocky contours anxiously, unable entirely to shake a fear that the noise, the madness, might at any moment come boiling down upon him again from those frozen heights. He kept still, watching and waiting. A beat later, he shook his head with a rueful grin.

 _Admit it, Heath, you're not **listening** to anything. You're afraid to move. Afraid you might make a noise – break your cover - draw fire - ? _

_Damn straight I am._ He looked at the ground, took a few more deep breaths. _Let it come, let it go, like a wave breaking on the beach._ Lifting his gaze again, he turned back to the glowing eastern horizon and acknowledged another fact: he felt better in his head, right then, than he had in a _long_ time.

 _Months. Longer maybe. Maybe since Mama died._

It was a mite disturbing, being a glimpse, painfully sharp, of just how off-kilter he'd been. He wasn't sure yet what was different, other than the blessed silence where silence should properly be.

 _The eye of the storm? Maybe. Maybe not._

He'd heard tales from east coast sailors of that eerie peace in the heart of the hurricane. He decided to give it all some serious thought, but not now.

 _Not this morning. Right now, the sun is rising, and I'm gonna take care of my horse._

Heath drew a breath to whistle, but it wasn't necessary. Charger came into view, loping toward him from the shadowed meadows upstream. Heath looked the colt over critically as he approached – assessing his nutrition, gait, possible injuries – as best he could, anyway, what with his eyes all misting up with emotion at the sight of his horse. Relief, joy, love, home-sickness, gratitude, worry – it was all there filling him up as Heath put his good arm around the bay's shaggy neck and leaned his forehead against the horse's shoulder.

"Hey, Champ. Hey, boy," he murmured. "Hey, my brave boy. How you doin'. This winter coat of yours needs a good brushing, that's for sure." He moved around the horse, running his hands over his back and flanks. "You're lookin' a little lean, big guy. Gonna have to get you down to where there's some better grazing. Let's have a look at your feet."

As Heath expected, all but one shoe was gone, and Charger's hooves showed the wear and tear from their off-trail flight through the mountains. The colt didn't seem lame - that was good news. Heath focused on removing the one remaining shoe, and cleaning, trimming, and oiling all four feet. He gave Charger a lump of sugar for his patience, then moved on to the currying and combing.

When Teleli emerged from the shelter a little while later, the sun had cleared the horizon. Charger was gleaming – as much as a horse with a winter coat can – and Heath was looking just about spent. He had worked his way through his chosen tasks one-handed. He was dizzy, thirsty, hungry, his right arm was exhausted, and the gash on his chest was showing some bleeding again. He didn't care. It was quiet in his head and he was taking care of his horse, and that was good.

Heath gave Charger one more of Audra's treats and patted him on the neck as he turned, unsteadily, to go. Charger gave him an affectionate nudge of thanks that knocked him completely off balance. He tumbled forward and landed in a heap at Teleli's feet. Teleli regarded him gravely, his eyes laughing.

"You look better, Me'weh."

"I feel better. Mighta been able to catch myself from fallin' if my arm wasn't all trussed up." He offered up this mild accusation to Teleli, who just grinned and shook his head. Looking at Teleli upside-down, Heath was reminded suddenly of Malila. "Malila looks like you," he said.

"Cousins," Teleli agreed. "Her father and my father were brothers. They looked very alike. Very unlike in spirit, though." He squatted down by Heath and helped him up to a sitting position, then sat down beside him. They both looked out at the broad dry expanse of Nevada far below, and the rising sun as it bleached the blue sky to white.

After a few minutes of silence, Heath found his eyes and his worry were drawn back up to the mountain peaks rising behind them. He suddenly felt as if they were looming over him, leaning in, threatening. He tensed, forcing his eyes away.

"Me'weh."

"Hmmh."

"You're holding your breath."

Heath realized that was true. He made himself breathe, and was not surprised - but a little embarrassed - to notice he felt better. Flushing slightly, he focused on his breathing until it seemed like it would continue on the way it normally does, unsupervised. Teleli stayed sitting by him, silent.

Heath glanced once more over his shoulder, then looked down at his weathered hands and the longbow Artemis had made for him – seemed like years ago, now.

"Is it going to come back?" he asked quietly.

"It might. Probably. Yes." Teleli nodded. "Might not be as bad. Like everything else, I learned the signs, got to where I could either calm it down or guide it away. Sometimes I'd still have to leave. Sometimes. Less and less."

"Calm it down? Guide it away?"

"Talking. I talked to Osa and she talked to me. Working. The dance, if it got bad. And the tea helps. About once a month, even less sometimes."

"The tea. Right. Tell me about the tea, Teleli. I run into you 15 years later and you're drugging me again."

Teleli did not react with humor to Heath's jibe. He looked anguished, in fact. "That last time – the night of the burning – that wasn't me. That was my father. I didn't know what he had put in it. I still don't know. I have no excuse though. I should have known. I should have smelled it. He made no secret that he wanted you to die. I think he wanted the scalp hunters to find you. He liked the idea of the White men killing their own." His voice was bitter and full of grief. "If Husu hadn't been able to wake you…" His words trailed off as he stared in horror at that terrible possibility, so narrowly averted.

"He **_was_** able to, and he saved us both. Teleli – I don't hold that against you. I just want to know what you gave me this time."

Teleli made a waving gesture with his hand, low to the ground. "Mushrooms," he said.

Heath started to worry. "Mushrooms? Which ones? How do you know they're not poisonous?"

"Wavy. The caps are wavy. And there are other markers to be sure they are the correct ones. I will teach you. You may need it."

"I may need it…?" Heath pondered that strange idea only briefly. That was another thing he'd have to think through later. He looked down at the bow in his hand. "A little girl taught me to use this. I'd practice – I'd go off on my own a lot and practice, when I first got back from Nevada – because it helped me settle my mind. Maybe like the dance."

"Yes." Teleli studied the bow and arrows. "A little girl? This is excellent work."

"Yep," he agreed. "She's one in a million. Wise and brave beyond her years. Husu should be telling bedtime stories about _**her**_. She is named for the goddess of the hunt." A small movement caught his eye as the sunlight more fully illuminated the canyon. "And speaking of the hunt –"

Heath raised a hand to his mouth and gave an odd, squeaking call that was somewhere between a squawk and a whistle. Teleli looked at him in surprise, curious. Heath repeated the sound, and there was an answering call off in a clump of rocks and brush about 50 yards away. He pointed.

"Grouse, I think." He smiled at Teleli. "I'm hungry, and I'm sick of jackrabbit."

"Don't have any snares set over there."

Heath lifted the bow and arrow.

"Me'weh. My aim is lousy, and your arm is broken."

Heath nodded. "That's true. But my aim is damn near perfect, and there ain't nothin' wrong with your left arm. So let's go."


	86. Chapter 85 - Keep Silence

_In silence, in steadiness, in severe abstraction, let him hold by himself; add observation to observation, patient of neglect, patient of reproach, and bide his own time, — happy enough if he can satisfy himself alone that this day he has seen something truly._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

 _Remember my affliction and wandering,  
_ _the wormwood and the gall.  
_ _Surely my soul remembers  
_ _and is humbled within me.  
_ _Yet I call this to mind,  
_ _and therefore I have hope:_

 _Let him sit alone and keep silence,  
_ _Because the yoke is laid upon him.  
_ _Let him put his mouth in the dust,  
_ _If so be there may be hope._

 _Lamentations 3:19-21, 28-29_

* * *

 ** _Mono Lake, California, December 14, 1874_**

"You should have shown that to me days ago, Teleli. Not waited until you just couldn't hide it anymore."

"So you have said, Me'weh. Many times."

Heath stopped walking and shaded his eyes, examining the dry, rocky terrain ahead for the smoothest path of descent. Charger halted close behind his left shoulder and nudged him with a little impatience. Mono Lake stretched out before them like a vast sheet of tempered steel. Flat and gray-blue in the windless air, it reflected with perfect clarity the few white clouds that dotted the sky. The water's edge shone with a thick rim of glistening white salt that, further off, piled up into tall spiky formations like the spires of miniature castles.

"Quit pushing, Champ. Ain't no water down there for you to drink, and not much grazing either. You're gonna have to wait." He turned to look at Teleli, worry obvious in his eyes. Teleli was hunched slightly in the saddle and shivering despite the heat of the midday sun. "You didn't even tell me you'd been shot until two days ago," Heath accused.

"Other things were more important. And I was taking care of it. I thought it was healing." He suppressed a smile at Me'weh's worried scolding. "I am not disagreeing with you, Me'weh. You are right. I should have followed your example."

Heath studied him suspiciously. "What do you mean, _my_ example?"

"Your willingness to ask for help, of course, Me'weh. It is – admirable."

Heath opened his mouth to retort, closed it, tried again, and then just sighed, stymied by the knowing humor in Teleli's eyes. He shook his head and turned back toward the lake.

"Well, Teleli, I think we're in luck."

This time Teleli did laugh aloud. "How are we in luck, Me'weh?"

"Salt. We need salt to fix that leg, and what we have here is a whole lake full of salt."

"Salt?"

"Yep. Prison guard over in Nevada saved my leg and probably my life with it. It's not just the salt, 'course, it's what he _did_ with it, but it worked." He glanced up at Teleli. "Gonna hurt like hell though. I want to get some salt here, but then we need to push on a bit to where we can camp with some fuel and fresh water. Might need to stay put for a few days, depending on how you do." He started forward again, Charger close behind. "I'd like to get as far as Glass Creek, but that'll take a few hours, and I don't know with that leg of yours…"

Teleli looked off at the distant rock formations to their south. "Glass Creek? Why?"

"Obsidian," Heath answered, absently, his attention on the path before him. "Big mounds of it there. Thought I'd gather some and see if I can figure out how to make some new arrowheads."

"I can help with that. My mother was an expert with obsidian. It made her very valuable among the villages. It was the main reason my father sought to marry her – until he fell in love with her for other reasons." He smiled. "My mother would teach me to shape the stones when I was little. Even after we were stolen, if we had a few minutes together, sometimes she would show me. It was like magic, what she could make the stones do. I can still feel her hands on mine." He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering, and then he laughed again as he watched Heath begin to gather hunks of salt from the ground, working one-handed as his left arm was still in a sling.

"What's so funny now?"

"There is another reason you should go stand on top of the obsidian mound."

Heath limped back over to Charger and stowed the salt he had collected in one of the saddlebags. He squinted up at Teleli, wondering what the Indian was getting at, but unable to read his expression with the sun in his eyes. " _I_ should go stand on top? Why?"

"That's Yayali's head. You defeated Yayali, Me'weh. It is only right that you should go stand on his head and howl at the moon."

"Yayali's head? What are you talking about?"

" _Hisym camse! Kacak imok wali-ŋy, hisym. Hutelŋe hanas hisym. Hanas sit-ik-iniwapusnu, kice-pusnu hisym."_ Teleli recited in a singsong rhythm that Heath now recognized. "Die to the East! And as they say it he falls that way, East. His head rolls away east, and there it turns into obsidian, turns into Arrowpoint Rock over in the East."

"Yayali's head. So _that's_ where it ended up. Go figure." Heath chuckled and started walking again, heading south. "I sure can't take credit for winning that battle. If I howl at the moon, Teleli, it'll be because of you and everyone else that stepped up to save my sorry hide."

"We faced the giant together and we will howl together, Me'weh. Nothing sorry about it."

Heath glanced back to see Teleli regarding him thoughtfully. _Nothing sorry. Can you hold on to yourself, Me'weh?_ Heath held his gaze, and then nodded with a slight smile to let Teleli know he had made his point. He continued on, instinctively angling their path upward toward the treed slopes where they would likely find fresh water and a sheltered spot to camp. Their exposure out on the wide-open lakeshore terrain was making him nervous.

Teleli considered the younger man walking ahead of him. Over the past few days, Me'weh had gotten stronger physically; more important, he was far more settled in his mind. Not smooth and easy, of course, but the crushing despair, and the shrieking, unbridled invasions of memory, had retreated. He could see Me'weh was still unsure of this respite. He was testing it out, step-by-step, as he focused on their continued flight and evasion; he was testing his balance, as he moved through each day; testing the silence in his mind, as he schooled Teleli in the mysteries of the arrows' flight, holding him as close as a lover as he guided his hands on the longbow. Always watching, always listening for the return of the madness. At what point would Me'weh feel ready to leave his self-imposed isolation, and return home?

Teleli worried for him. The longer he stayed, the more entangled he became in this outlaw condition that for two years had utterly exiled Teleli from home and family. Teleli tried to speak about this, but Me'weh would not consider leaving him until he had brought Teleli to a place of safety. He had faith his brother Jarrod would do everything possible to clear them both. Failing that - and he admitted failure was possible - Me'weh was certain he had a way to keep Teleli out of the hands of the law. He would not leave until he had accomplished that, at least.

Now, however, Teleli had a new, very serious problem, and Me'weh had refused any further discussion of going separate ways. Teleli shifted in the saddle in a vain attempt to ease the steadily increasing pain and heat from the wound in his leg. The redness and then the sickness had come on rapidly, as they broke camp and began the trek eastward out of the mountains. By the end of the first day on the trail, the fever had begun in earnest, and he could no longer bear weight. It was clear to them both that Teleli would be in a bad situation if he were out here alone, even if he weren't hunted by every lawman and bounty hunter in California.


	87. Chapter 86 - Serve in the Wilderness

_I have been driven many times to my knees, by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom, and that of all about me seemed insufficient for that day._

 _Abraham Lincoln._

* * *

 _And thou shalt say unto him: The LORD, the God of the Hebrews, hath sent me unto thee, saying: Let My people go, that they may serve Me in the wilderness;_

 _But Pharaoh will not hearken unto you, and I will lay My hand upon Egypt, and bring forth My hosts, My people the children of Israel, out of the land of Egypt, by great judgments._

 _Exodus 7_

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, December 19, 1874_**

A heavy rain was falling on the valley. The low-hanging clouds darkened the early gloom of the midwinter afternoon. Anxiously wringing a dust cloth in his hands, Silas paused at the upper landing and watched Victoria pace from the blazing fireplace, into the foyer, past the foot of the stairs, and back to the fireplace again. She was tense, preoccupied, and restless, just as he was; he wondered if she might wear a path right into the floorboards by the time they found Heath and brought him home.

Over three weeks ago John, Audra, Heath and Rivka set out on their search for Nox' family; it had been less than a week since Victoria had returned home from Sonora with John, still recovering from his injuries. Only Nick had come home with them that day, and Silas had barely seen him since. Nick had returned in a brooding state of mind, alternately irritable and depressed. He had thrown himself into work around the ranch, the more physical and time-consuming the better.

Audra had pleaded with her mother and John ( _with her **parents** , _Silas marveled, having seen that relationship sprout from a seemingly tentative seed) to be allowed to stay in Sonora a little while longer. She said she wanted to help Peter and Ilsa settle in with their new baby; Jed had offered Moshe and the couple the use of a small house that stood on land he had inherited from his parents. It was close to town and adjoined Raul Montana's homestead, and didn't need much work to make it livable.

Victoria had shared with Silas, too, her impression that Audra was having trouble separating from Nox. That was to be expected, to some extent; she and the horse had formed a strong bond. It was more than that, though, Victoria was sure. It had to do with Heath. Audra and Heath had worked together to bring Nox back to health. In that process – on the strength of their connection and love – Audra had hoped to bring her brother back to health as well. It had helped. It had reached him perhaps as well as anything had – but it was not enough. Two weeks ago, Heath had vanished like a wraith into the mountains, and none of them knew if he was even still alive.

 _Coming home without Nox would be sad, but necessary and right,_ Silas agreed, as he tried to put himself in Audra's place. _But coming home without Nox, and without Heath too – no, no, that feels too much like grief, like something's gone that shouldn't be lost. I can see why she doesn't want to leave yet…_

She wanted, also, to stay and help Rivka, who found herself in charge of a rapidly enlarging public health project. This project was based in the field hospital Rivka had set up in the barn, a building that now stood at the center of the newly incorporated Miwok Village of Sutamasina.

Silas had not yet gathered all the details, but apparently a chief government doctor from Sacramento and a lady doctor from San Francisco came out to see Rivka's work and were impressed - so impressed, apparently, that they sent a few nurses and student doctors from San Francisco to work under her, and gave her a mandate to set up a tribal health system in Tuolumne County. Victoria said it was growing fast – the barn was being hastily refurbished – and the demand for their services had already spread into the White communities around Sonora.

Silas could not help but wonder how Rivka was doing – and whether, like Nick, she was managing her grief with immersion in an inexhaustible sea of tasks, needs, and urgencies.

Jarrod had been blowing through the house intermittently like a man on fire since a few days after Heath and Teleli had disappeared. He was always coming and going between Stockton, Sonora, and Sacramento. He had come up against a stone wall with the governor's office, despite sheaves of evidence with which to bargain; he had had no word from Jed, the young marshal he had sent in search of the two missing men; and over the past few days his demeanor was growing as dark as the winter weather.

Today Jarrod had closed himself in the study in order to meet with Phil Archer. If he had intended their discussion to be private, it was no longer, as Jarrod's frustrated, urgent voice came clearly through the closed door.

"Dammit, Phil, I need more than this."

"I understand, Jarrod, we're –"

" _Do_ you? _Do_ you understand? I have already presented the governor with evidence as damning as this and he has not budged. Do you know why? He is mad, Phil, mad like Pharaoh. He _will_ fall, inevitably, just like Mills and all the rest. But until he does, Phil, he has hardened his heart, and he will not let Teleli – or my brother – go. _This_ -" Jarrod shook the documents he held in his hand, "this has not yet put the fear of God into his heart. Refusing amnesty has become for him a last, vicious, vindictive act of power."

"OK, Jarrod. What do you suggest? We can't visit the plagues of Egypt upon Sacramento. Where else – _who_ else - can we push?"

Silas heard a quiet step behind him in the upstairs hallway. Victoria halted in her pacing and gasped in surprise as she saw John appear beside Silas, dressed, upright and clearly ready to come downstairs. Silas saw the flash of pleasure and relief on her face before she schooled her expression into something more stern and custodial. She hurried to the stairs and met the two men halfway down, observing John all the while to see just how sea-worthy he was.

John accepted her scrutiny, responding to her barrage of questions with a gentle smile, until they reached the foyer - at which point he pulled her into a kiss and silenced her in mid-sentence.

"I feel remarkably well this afternoon," he said, studying her face as if he had not seen her for months, "and you look beautiful." Then he glanced up at the study door. "And I need to see what I can do about this problem with the governor."

Silas and Victoria watched John step into the study and close the door behind him.

"I'm sure they're going to find a way to get that amnesty, Mrs. Barkley. Don't you think? If the governor _is_ mad like Pharaoh, then Mr. Jarrod just needs to keep at it until he falls. The Pharaoh will crumble, if we stay strong and have faith." He twisted the dusting cloth in his hands and looked out toward the north pasture. "I just wish they were all home safe. I just keep prayin' on it."

Victoria swallowed and blinked back the tears that had been threatening all morning. John's reappearance and apparent well-being was a surprise, as he had had a worrisome relapse of fever just a few days ago. Today John had awakened with a cool forehead and a good appetite, and he clearly had continued on that trajectory all day. The sight of him up and around had filled her with renewed hope and energy. Turning to Silas, she squeezed both of his hands in hers and smiled into his pained eyes.

"Stay strong and have faith. That is what this family does best, Silas. We will find a way." She followed his gaze to the window. "Where is Hannah, do you know?"

"She's out walking, I expect. She's always out walking, now, even in this weather. It's like she wants to go out looking for him. She knows it's too far, but she can't rest neither. She's like you wearing a path in this floor here, 'cept she's out walking the range."


	88. Chapter 87 - Winter Solstice

_Arise, cry out in the night_  
 _from the first watch of the night._  
 _Pour out your heart like water_  
 _in the presence of the Lord._  
 _Lift up your hands to Him_  
 _for the lives of your children_

 _Lamentations 2:19_

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, dawn, December 21, 1874_**

 _Sun should be coming up soon. Maybe it's up already, I sure can't tell._

A few rivulets of cold rain dripped from beneath the brim of his hat and slid chilly fingers down inside his shirt. Nick shivered slightly and pulled his turned-up coat collar a little tighter around his neck. He scanned what landscape he could see in the gloom, a worried frown on his face.

Coco stood patiently. He felt his rider shift unhappily in the saddle, and knew they would be moving forward again shortly. For right now, though, the horse was glad to be in the tree-sheltered grove, and somewhat protected from the wet weather.

Late last night Nick had collapsed, exhausted, in one of the shacks on the eastern verge of the ranch, after a day of struggling with mud-swamped cattle, flooded creeks and collapsed fencing. He found he was unable to sleep for more than a few hours, though, and was awake and saddling Coco well before dawn.

He had barely been around the house all week. He needed work; and sweat; and concrete, physical, fixable problems upon which to lay his hands; otherwise he thought the loss and helpless anger he was feeling might drive him mad. The weather-beaten, sprawling ranch willingly obliged his need, but the aching he could feel in his chest never went away completely. Out on the range, immersed in the work, Heath was closer at hand, somehow. At home, Nick felt painfully aware of his absence; like a house with broken windows, it was sharp, jarring and wrong.

Nick had not seen Hannah for days. Perhaps this wasn't too surprising - he had hardly seen anyone of the family since they had returned home – but he had been watching for Hannah, he admitted now. He had been watching for her everywhere he went; checking around her cabin; and riding at least once a day up to the side-by-side graves on this tree-shaded hill where he now sat mounted on Coco. She wasn't _gone_ – Silas had assured him of that. But as Nick moved over the land he knew as well as the shape of his own two hands, he realized he had been watching for her, he had not seen her, and it bothered him.

The sky to the southeast had lightened, reluctantly. The rain continued to fall in a steady gray hiss. Coco shifted his weight, feeling the damp and cold in his aging joints. Nick patted his neck with a muttered apology. He looked one more time at the gravestones.

 _The night I was born, she was alone…and the rain beat down and turned the straw to mud..._

He could hear his brother's voice speaking of Leah with love and honor and grief, even as his father's sons were calling her a whore and throwing Heath out like a mangy stray dog.

 _Do you know what she was -? She was warm, and gentle, and fair…_

No, they did not know Leah, or Rachael, or Hannah that day, nor even for months, years, afterward.

 _Hannah. Where are you walking now?_ Nick nudged Coco forward. _You have been alone through so much. You shouldn't be alone now._

It was time just to go out and _find_ her. Time to get her warm, and dry, and in out of the rain; maybe get her back to the house, where Nick was certain he'd find Silas in the kitchen. Then, maybe, Nick would make them all some corn cakes.

* * *

 ** _Inyo Range, California, December 21, 1874_**

Jed let his horse pick her own way up the dry, rocky ravine. To look at it, a casual tracker would think this narrow little canyon was a dead end. Only thing it seemed good for might be to trap some game to make the shooting easier, and it certainly looked like a foolish choice for a man tracking two reputedly dangerous fugitives. It's not only game animals can get boxed in for the kill.

Appearances were deceiving, though, in this case. At least, Jed thought so. All the signs indicated that the man he sought, Heath Barkley, had used this canyon to make his way to the interior of this part of the Inyo range. Jed had been tracking Heath consistently for a few days now. Hadn't gotten even close to catching him, but he'd gotten his trail clear enough that he was confident he was tracking only one man and one unshod horse. He had seen no sign of Teleli. He wondered what had become of the man that he and Raul had been after the past two years.

A few things Jed knew based on the tracks he had found: the unshod horse was fast, sound, and stood just over 16 hands. The man was probably just over six feet, with a noticeable limp of the right leg, which fit Barkley's description. When traveling on foot, he was slow and tired quickly. There was precious little sign along Heath's trail: no shells or other evidence of firearms, and only some small game remains, flaked obsidian, and a few broken or cast off arrows and arrowheads.

This broad valley of rock and dust that lay between the Sierra to the west and the Inyo to the east was Shoshone and Paiute territory, though to say any territory belonged to someone other than White people was always uncertain at best. Near here, several months ago, Jim Roberts and his marshals had held off a massacre and established a safe area for the Indians down by Independence.

Heath had been traveling steadily southward, and they were now well into the territory that had come to be called Death Valley. Jed wondered where Heath was going, and whether he might swing west once he was south of the big mountain snows. He had heard from Nick and Jarrod that Heath was familiar with the inland route to San Diego, along the Kern where it exits the Sierra on the western slope. That route would be a bad choice right now; Jed had heard it was heavily traveled by lawmen and bounty hunters alike.

The sun was setting in an orange and gold sky behind the Sierras, and the mist that enveloped the highest peaks of Mount Whitney became a blazing cloud of fire. _Tumanguya_ , Jed thought, _that's the Indian name for the mountain_. He stopped for a moment, smiling, to take in the sight.

" _Now_ _Mount Sinai was completely in smoke, because the Lord descended upon it in fire_ ," he murmured, remembering his bible studies with his mother. He laughed at himself and continued on up the ravine.

 _Here goes,_ Jed thought. _I think Heath left this trail for me, and I'm gonna trust him and follow it. I hope it means he'll talk to me and I can get some word back to the family. Maybe he's just leading me off track, but he should know by now I can tail him._

 _Hope it doesn't mean he's gonna dry-gulch me up in these mountains._

 _Can't corner him, not on my own, but he can't shake me neither. He'll be cornered eventually, though, 'cause pretty soon it won't just be me on his trail. Just a matter of time, 'less Jarrod can change the situation._

It was dusk and the air was rapidly cooling when Jed emerged from another narrow gulch to come out atop a small mesa. There was a broad view of the surrounding desert. Jed chuckled to himself and shook his head in bemusement as he appreciated the excellent concealment and defensibility of the spot. He dismounted easily and loosened his horse's cinch, leaving her ground-tied near the ravine entrance. He then carefully pulled his rifle from its scabbard and leaned it against the rocks near the horse. He wrapped up his gun belt and side arm and laid those by the rifle, then removed the Deputy Marshal star he wore and left that by the guns as well. He took a good long drink from his canteen. The he crossed over the mesa to the still-warm campfire site, rolled himself a smoke, and sat down to wait.


	89. Chapter 88 - Wood and Wave

_Come learn with me the fatal song_  
 _Which knits the world in music strong…_  
 _The wood is wiser far than thou;_  
 _The wood and wave each other know_

 _Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,_  
 _And heal the hurts which sin has made._  
 _I see thee in the crowd alone;_  
 _I will be thy companion._

 _Enough for thee the primal mind_  
 _That flows in streams, that breathes in wind:_  
 _Leave all thy pedant lore apart;_  
 _God hid the whole world in thy heart._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Wood Notes"_

* * *

 _ **Death Valley, Inyo Range, California, December 21, 1874**_

A waning gibbous moon rose over the mountainous desert to the east. It lingered at first, fat and lazy, glowing golden-yellow at the horizon. As it ascended, it contracted into a bright silver spotlight in the cloudless sky, broadly illuminating the barren, angular, undulating terrain. Jed stretched out by the campfire, enjoying the residual ground heat of the day's sun that warmed his back. He slept, dreamlessly, and woke fully aware that he was no longer alone.

He did not feel threatened, but he still thought it wise not to do anything sudden. He carefully lifted his hat from his face; before he made another move, he made sure he had eye contact with the man watching him from across the fire. Seeing no overt objection, Jed slowly sat up, settled his hat on the back of his head, and nodded a cautious greeting.

"Evenin'." There was no response. He cleared his throat. "Name's Jed."

The man nodded finally. "Evenin', Deputy."

His voice was rough, not much more than a hoarse whisper. _Weeks in the desert dust,_ Jed thought, then found himself wondering how long it had been since the man had spoken out loud. They studied each other in silence, over the low flames of the campfire.

They had never met before, to his knowledge. Mindful of the task assigned to him, Jed's first thought was to confirm for himself that this man was Heath Barkley. He had a description of man and horse; he had a photograph from Jarrod; he had the signs he had gathered himself over several days of tracking. Now, with the fugitive standing in front of him and his own recent familiarity with the Barkley family in his mind, Jed knew he had the right man. The features captured in the photograph were clear, as was the family resemblance to Jarrod and especially to Audra. What Jed could not help but notice were the differences, as he watched Heath limp a few steps forward and crouch down to stoke the fire.

In the rising glow of the flames, Jed saw a man burnt as dark as himself from the weeks out in the high country and the desert. In the moonlight, his sun-bleached hair looked nearly white. Jed had not yet spotted any weapons – other than the unstrung bow in his right hand – but he knew Heath must have a sharp blade on him somewhere, because he wore only a day or two's growth of beard.

The Barkleys were intelligent, strong, affectionate people, in Jed's experience, and fundamentally kind-hearted. He had sensed those qualities, too, in this half-brother who knelt at the fire before him. Strength and intelligence he had recognized as he tracked the man; face-to-face, he sensed no violence from him, in fact, he seemed wary, but otherwise profoundly calm. Jed had heard Husu's tales, had seen something of Heath reflected in the feelings of Marshal Smith and Frank and Rivka. He could imagine him laughing and riding with his brothers and sister, in a different time and place.

The man he saw here, though, made him think of wind-carved rock, and ancient storm-battered trees growing where barely any green can survive.

 _He's been worn down to the bone of who and what he is_ , Jed thought, _and that scarred shape, it makes him different._

Rivka came to his mind. Last he'd heard, she'd been preparing to return to the Indian camp to step back into battle against the diseases that were still ravaging what was left of the village.

 _She knows **this** man, _Jed was sure, recalling what he had learned of their history together. _She would recognize him. This is who she is waiting for._

At first glance, Jed would have said he was dressed like an Indian, but on closer inspection, he could identify some of the clothing in which Heath had fled. He had used animal hides to repair and reinforce his pants and his leather boots, and his deerskin cloak appeared to have a lining of dark blue wool. He wore no shirt. Jed suspected that piece of clothing was now the faded cloth that wrapped his splinted left arm, which he held bent and close to his chest.

Satisfied with the fire, Heath sat back on his heels and shrugged out of the cloak. He laid it neatly aside at a distance from the flames, placed the bow and arrows on top of it, and then turned his silent attention back to Jed.

 _Getting damn cold,_ Jed thought, as his own breath fogged in the night air. _Don't seem to bother him, though._ His eyes traced over the garment of scars the man wore, old and new, wrapped around his chest and arms. Several looked plenty painful, still. Heath waited, watching his eyes, patient. _He don't seem to be inclined to say anything else_. _Guess I'll just wade on in._

"You're Heath, right?"

Heath nodded.

"So…um…just wondering – how do you shoot that bow with your arm all splinted up?"

Heath raised his eyebrows in a subdued expression of surprise. He shifted himself off his knees with a grimace of discomfort, and then settled to lean back against the rocks behind him, regarding Jed with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"You been on my trail for four days now, Deputy. Is that what you came all the way out here for? Bow-huntin' advice?"

"Nah, just curious. And I ain't much of a lawman, am I, letting a fugitive catch me out like this without my gun or my badge. Should be ashamed of myself," he said mournfully, laying his forehead dramatically in one hand.

Heath could not help but grin at Jed's theatrical humor, though he was honestly concerned – and had been for days – about what the boy's business was coming after him alone. He finally decided to take the chance and lead him to where they could meet. _Jed_ – he remembered the name. "Had to learn to shoot left-handed, and for a while I was pulling the bowstring with my teeth. Works just fine, with some practice. You're Montana's deputy, right? You seem awful young for the job. How old are you?"

"You're one to talk, Barkley. I'm two years older than you were when you signed on with Sawyer."

"Point taken." He paused, then: "I ain't much of a lawman myself right now. Absent from duty without leave, at the very least – and probably in more trouble than that, now, yes?" Jed nodded in confirmation. Heath sighed. He would find out soon enough just how much trouble. He had a more pressing worry. "How's John?"

"Healing up pretty good when I left town. Arguing with the Doc, but all "yes, ma'am" to the Missus. They're probably back in Stockton by now."

"Smart man. He learns quick." Relieved somewhat on that account, Heath let Jed fill him in on what he knew of events since the sunset confrontation with Morgan. The news that Rivka had remained in Sonora to set up an ongoing health service filled him with pride and a powerful yearning to get back to her side.

"Where is Teleli, Heath?"

Heath was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he stared into the fire. He knew that question would come. He looked back up at the young man, who was waiting for his answer with genuine concern in his eyes. For a moment – just a brief moment – Heath considered sharing what he knew, moved by the compassion he could sense in the boy. He shook his head, then, and said nothing.

"Is he dead or alive? Can you tell me that?"

He just shook his head again. Heath looked past Jed's shoulder at the massive snow-covered peak of Tumanguya, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Teleli was beyond the reach of the powerful men who sought to scapegoat and destroy him. There was nothing more Heath could do, and so he had turned his eyes toward home.

He knew he didn't have it in him to make another winter crossing through the high passes.

"So…what's your play here, Jed? I don't see the sense in you getting in trouble yourself, consorting with a wanted man. You took an oath. Montana know what you're doing?"

"Does by now, I expect. Jarrod asked me to find you, and I wanted to help. Seemed like the right thing to do, and I thought if I could find Teleli as well, it would set Raul's mind at ease."

 _Jarrod._ Heath's expression tightened with the guilt and shame that pressed in on him each time he thought of how he had troubled his family. He struggled against the feeling on a daily basis now, knowing it could drag him down; he had to force himself, at times, to keep moving forward, toward home. His gaze dropped to the campfire. Limned in glowing orange, a pinecone burned in the heart of the flames. He told himself to relax. "Jarrod. Did he pull it off, then? Do his legal magic and run off Morgan and his mercenaries?" Jed nodded. "But they still want Teleli. Governor wants his blood sacrifice? And me?" Another nod.

"Jarrod wanted me to warn you. He wants you to stay away." He saw Heath flinch slightly at those words, his eyes bright for a moment with a different kind of pain.

Jed had called him a 'fugitive', but truth be told, he **_was_** trying to get back home. He knew it was likely he would be under arrest again once he got there, but he dearly wanted to go back under his own steam. It was partly pride: he really didn't want to show up already shackled in the custody of some bounty hunter. It was partly a practical consideration: Heath knew from painful experience the ugly things that can happen when a man runs afoul of the law in unfamiliar or unfriendly territory. He wanted to stay well clear of any and all law enforcement and bounty hunters, at least until he was back on something like home turf.

The shortest path back to the valley, across the snow and ice and screaming winds of the high country, was not an option. The northern route across the Sierra meant catching a train; it meant a trek through Nevada; it meant retracing the path through Hell he had taken last summer; and it would almost certainly place him promptly in the hands of the law. So Heath had gone south, alone, into Death Valley.

 _This country wasn't so terrible_ , he thought, _in midwinter_. For days, he had moved solitary through this desolate country, considering his choices; just as much, he was exploring the frontiers of the silence in his mind, mapping out terrain both fertile and hazardous. There were hazards, to be certain; there were storm fronts, predators, and rockslides. There were nightmares, but he felt rooted and steady in himself in a way he had not felt for a very long time.

For all that, he was well aware that a solitary trek through the wilderness does not present the same challenges – or joys - as does life in and among people. He would have to face up to the pain and hurt he had caused his loved ones; he would have to face up to the possibility of another stretch in prison. He thought he was ready to accept just about anything, just so long as that chaotic, screaming despair would not again overtake him.

"Jarrod wants you to stay away until he can clear you and Teleli. He thinks he can find enough leverage to pry open the Governor's jaws and get him to drop his bone. In the meantime, if you and Teleli signed him on as your attorney, he figured his communication with you would be privileged, and he could help you stay clear until he can get rid of the charges."

Jed moved to stand up as he spoke, and it crossed Heath's mind that this deputy might change his mind and go get his gun and arrest him.

Jed saw the wariness return. "If you don't mind, I have a bunch of letters and documents for you, mostly from Jarrod, but also one from Rivka. They're in my saddlebag – or you can get 'em yourself if you want." He waited, watching Heath's face.

Heath waved him off, scowling and scolding himself to settle down. He followed the deputy with his eyes as he returned to the campfire with a bundle of letters in his hand. Heath thanked him. He didn't unwrap them immediately, just sat marveling at the many different ways his brother Jarrod seemed to be able to reach out to him from impossible distances. He wondered if it would ever seem less than miraculous.

"I've been trying to go home," he said.

"I figure," Jed responded, "that you're heading to cross over south of the heavy snow. Can't imagine you want a repeat of that run you and Teleli made down from Sonora pass."

"Sure don't. Walker Pass, maybe…could make that trail in a few days from here." He had thought at first he wouldn't go home, that he would head down to San Diego, help out Rivka's family, maybe work a fishing boat or construction. _But if I'm crazy,_ he thought, _I can't bring that to the Levi's home any more than I can the Barkley's_. And once he started feeling **_less_** crazy, he realized there was only one place to go.

Jed was giving him a warning. "You'd best plan to keep your trail on the western slope to the north. The Kern valley is heavily trafficked now, from the mountains down to the flats. Lawmen, bounty hunters, scalp hunters, outlaws, prospectors. No way you'd get through there without some kinda trouble.

"More I think about it, the more I think you're gonna need my help to get home. Jarrod can assist, for sure, but you need me, leastways if you want to walk in on your own two feet and not be dragged into town for the dead-or-alive payout."

Jed had spoken seriously, but now he was grinning. "I also have stern instructions from Audra," Jed added. "To tell you to get yourself home safely, preferably by Christmas, and definitely by your birthday, and if you fail to do so, she will be very angry with you and you will be forced to take her shopping for –" He paused, trying to remember exactly, "- for upholstery, curtains, lampshades, dishes, and – _shoes_."

"Them's fightin' words," Heath mused, impressed by the dire threat. He then looked suspiciously at Jed. "Audra. You sweet on my sister, Deputy?"

"C'mon, Barkley. I'm not a dead man, or blind. Of **_course_** I'm a little sweet on your sister. So are you. Who wouldn't be?" He could see Heath remained unconvinced. "Nah, listen, I got a girl." He looked down, unable to hide the smile that always came when he spoke of her. "My Rafaela. She is Raul's niece. We grew up together. We want to get married, maybe next year." He made himself stop talking about her, feeling a little embarrassed by his show of emotion, and besides, he felt there was something more important he wanted to share with Heath.

Heath had a slight smile as he studied the younger man. He could see there was something else on Jed's mind. "What is it, Deputy?"

"You asked me if I was sweet on Audra. Here's the thing: since I met her, and now you, well, it has occurred to me that we might be kin."

.


	90. Chapter 89 - Pursued and Evading

_It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"_

* * *

 _ **Barkley Ranch, Christmas Eve, 1874**_

" _Mother! Audra!_ " The heavy front door banged open as Jarrod rushed into the foyer from the veranda, clutching a telegram in his hand. Outside, the sound of the messenger's horse faded as he hurried back toward town, eager to get home for the holiday before night fell.

Silas was first to arrive from the dining room. He moved quickly to close the door against the winter wind, but his eyes were busy reading Jarrod's expression.

 _Good news? Bad news? Lord, let it be good news, please._ There was joy _and_ fear in the lawyer's face, which was making him uneasy. _Heath must be all right. Maybe there's still trouble, but he must be all right. Jarrod wouldn't have any joy otherwise._

Silas straightened his sleeves and steeled himself not to demand information. He would wait patiently until Victoria and Audra arrived, and then he would listen, though what he wanted to do was grab the telegram from Jarrod and read it himself. He gritted his teeth and schooled his face into a placid, attentive expression.

Jarrod glanced at him - a tightly-wound, patiently-waiting presence hovering an appropriate distance from his left elbow – then turned his eyes back to the stairs as he waited for his mother and sister to appear. He looked back at Silas a moment later, unable to ignore the sheer weight of that peaceful stare. Cracking under the pressure, Jarrod sighed, and handed Silas the telegram.

"Why thank you, Mr. Jarrod. I sure hope this is good news."

 _TO: JARROD BARKLEY, BARKLEY RANCH, STOCKTON CALIF_

 _FROM: J. BROWN, GLENVILLE CALIF_

 _FOUND HB INYO RANGE ON SOUTH ROUTE BACK TO VALLEY. REFUSED YR ADV TO STAY CLEAR. CONTIN ON TO SONORA. LAW BNTY AND VIG PRESENCE HEAVY. DEC TAKE HB INTO CUSTODY TO DETER POACHING BUT WE CONTIN PURSUED AND EVADING NORTHBOUND. USMS HELP EN ROUTE FROM MARIPOSA. WE ARE WELL. NO SIGN OF TELELI. HB MUM RE CURR LOC AND STATUS._

Silas read and re-read the cryptic message, an uncharacteristic scowl on his face as he tried to extract more sense from it that it was willing to give him. Phrases fought for his attention, and he understood, in part, why Jarrod had such mixed emotions when he rushed in with the news.

 _Found HB. Pursued and evading. Help en route. We are well. We are well. We are well._

He took a deep breath, and then startled when he felt Mrs. Barkley – ( _no,_ he corrected himself, _Mrs. Barkley- **Smith)** – _when he felt Mrs. Barkley-Smith lay a gentle hand over his, and ease the crumpling telegram out of his anxious grip. He met her worried eyes, and Audra's. "They are well, it says. He says he found Heath. He's alive." He focused on the good news. _We are well. It's Christmas Eve, and we are well._ It helped him stay steady. The family needed him to be steady.

"Jarrod, what does all this mean?" Victoria held the wrinkled telegram out to Jarrod. Both women were tearful at the news of survival after weeks of not knowing, but they were not so overcome with relief not to realize there were other concerns. Before he could answer, the front door opened again, and Silas rushed to meet Nick, John, and Hannah in the foyer to take the baskets of food from their hands and gather their coats. The good news was quickly shared all around. Silas hugged Hannah close and felt her tears on his cheek.

"Oh, thank God, thank you God, praise you God, thank you God," she murmured over and over. "Thank you, praise you, thank you, thank you."

Nick threw a muddy, leather-clad arm around Jarrod and almost knocked him over with his expression of relief. Victoria rushed into John's arms, and she could see his eyes were a bit wet as well. He held her close against his chest and whispered his own thank yous, resting his cheek against her soft, fragrant hair; he pulled Audra into the embrace as well.

Victoria held up the telegram again, offering it to John with a worried, questioning expression. She wanted to understand the whole message. It did not help that Jarrod was looking strangely tense and guarded, as if he was preparing for a confrontation.

John had not missed the look on Jarrod's face either, and he had an inkling what the trouble might be. He read the telegram carefully, frowning in thought, while Audra and Victoria watched his face. Then he translated, keeping his eyes on Jarrod.

"It's from Jed. He found Heath in the Inyo Range; that would be past Independence, east of the Sierra, in Death Valley. Heath was apparently trying to get back to the central valley by the southern route, near the Kern, probably, which would make sense given what we saw of the snow up in the pass further north." Jarrod nodded, standing now with his knuckles resting on the foyer tabletop, staring at the arrangement of pinecones that Silas had kept fresh every day for the past month. "He's wiring from Glenville," John went on, "and he says they're _well_ , so that at least means they got safely through one of the southern passes and into the western foothills. Sounds like they're having some trouble staying clear of the local law – and bounty hunters – and vigilantes." He could see Nick starting to pace. He was having a similar urge himself. He was getting to the rough parts now. "Looks like Jed decided to take Heath into Marshal Service custody, in the hopes that would deter all but the most mercenary of fugitive hunters."

"What do you _mean_ , he took Heath into custody?" Audra burst out. She had shifted from tearful relief to worry; worry was moving rapidly now toward outright alarm.

"It means Jed arrested him, Audra," John said quietly. "He decided to arrest Heath so Heath wouldn't look like fair game to every citizen they came across who fancied himself a bounty hunter. Governor's kept a pretty big price on their heads."

" _Arrest_ him? **_Jed_** did?"

"It was worth a try, honey. I would have done the same. I'm sure it helped, though not enough. From what he says, they have some poachers on their tail trying to catch 'em, but he and Heath are still making their way north in our direction. They have some marshals en route to help, coming from Mariposa, he says – I wonder who it is. They better be riding quick." He looked down at the typewritten message again. "Jed reports he saw no sign of Teleli, and Heath won't say anything about that." John paused here briefly, as that statement bothered him greatly. He did not know what it meant, yet, but all of the possibilities he could think were very bad. A few nights ago, he, Jarrod, and Phil had debated for hours over ways to break through the Governor's entrenched position. John had proposed an idea that Jarrod had flatly refused, and would not discuss. _Perhaps it should be revisited,_ John thought. He sighed, met Jarrod's resolute gaze, and continued reading.

"He says Heath refused your advice to stay clear, Jarrod, and instead continued on, intending to return to Sonora – which is how, I suppose, the poachers picked up Heath's trail along the Kern and are now chasing him and Jed through the hills. I'm guessing, Jarrod, that that is _exactly_ what you hoped Heath would avoid."

"Stay clear?" Victoria had taken Jarrod's arms and turned him to face her. "Stay _clear_ , Jarrod? Were you telling Heath to stay _away_?"

Jarrod could feel the weight of every single pair of eyes in the room, all looking at him, and all with varying degrees of horror, he was sure. Certainly, he felt a little bit monstrous himself, when he heard it spoken like that: _You told him to stay away?_

He made himself meet her serious gaze, and felt enormous relief to see she was not judging him; she was not angry; she was trying to understand. Not that it made a difference, really. He had done what he believed to be right. He knew some might condemn it, and that couldn't be helped. It was Christmas Eve, though, and they were all feeling the pain of Heath's absence. He didn't want the night to pass in a confrontation with his family.

He nodded. "Yes. Yes, I told Jed to tell him to stay away." The room was silent. He took a breath and continued. "I had a wire from Jed about a week ago, from Independence, saying only that he thought he had picked up Heath's trail, but no sign of Teleli. I had gotten _nowhere_ with the Governor, as far as I could see. If anything, I felt I was making the situation worse – he seemed to be growing more vindictive and irrational every time I interacted with him or his staff." He looked remorsefully at Nick. "I didn't want to share it with you, with the family, because what I was going to tell him to do was illegal. I wanted to make contact with Heath, but I couldn't see telling him to come back. It was starting to look like he would be walking into a lion's den. On top of that, I put Jed in an impossible position, asking him to find Heath but not arrest him.

"Well, it looks like those two boys have not followed any of my instructions, and have shown themselves to be more law-abiding citizens than I. I'm guessing it's Jim Roberts coming to help from Mariposa – he was traveling that way on his way back to Nevada. Might have one of those Thomas boys with him –" he gave a short laugh. "– Heck, I wouldn't be surprised of old Marshal Montana was on his way down the valley. It's pretty clear to see how he feels about that deputy of his."


	91. Chapter 90 - Two-Edged Sword

_I am that I am;  
_ _Ye are evil and good;  
_ _With colour and glory and story and song ye are fed as with food:  
_ _The cold and the heat,  
_ _The bitter and the sweet,  
_ _The calm and the tempest fulfil my Word;_

 _Yet will ye complain of my two-edged sword  
_ _That has fashioned the finite and mortal and given you the sweetness of strife,  
_ _The blackness and whiteness,  
_ _The darkness and brightness,  
_ _Which sever your souls from the formless and void and hold you fast-fettered to life?_

 _Since I sent out my worlds in their battle-array  
_ _To die and to live,  
_ _To give and to receive,  
_ _Not peace, not peace, I have brought among you but a sword,  
_ _To divide the night from the day,  
_ _Saith the Lord;  
_ _Yet all that is broken shall be mended,  
_ _And all that is lost shall be found,  
_ _I will bind up every wound,_ _When that which is begun shall be ended._

 _Alfred Noyes, "The Paradox"_

* * *

 _ **Merced River, Sierra Nevada, western foothills, December 27, 1874**_

Two horses emerged from the woods to a clear flat stretch along the river. Both the men and their mounts breathed a sigh of relief. They had spent the past several hours in a hurried ascent upstream, over rugged, unpredictable terrain, in an attempt to evade three separate bands of hunters. It appeared, for now, that they had succeeded. Seeing the open trail ahead, as if of one mind, the two men leaned forward; the horses responded willingly, stretching their stride into a full gallop. All four travelers were eager for unfettered speed and freedom of movement, after days of furtive, occasionally grueling, off-trail travel.

They had been riding a rough route, keeping clear of the roads and main trails as much as possible. It had been slow going, mostly, except when they had been spotted and pursued. Jed was hoping to rendezvous with Jim Roberts above Railroad Flats, where the north fork of the Merced joined the main river. He knew they were going to have to get past Coulterville to reach Sonora, and he was well familiar with the mercenary reputation of what passed for law enforcement in **_that_** town. He wanted at least one more gun on his side before they ran that gauntlet.

 _There is something strange about this game of tag we're playing,_ Jed kept thinking. The small groups of hunters that had been jumping on their trail intermittently were not amateurs, for the most part. Some were more skilled than others, and several were damn good and hard to shake. Many of _those_ , the good ones, seemed to vanish after a time, unaccountably.

 _All of them, actually. All but that one pair of riders, who keep coming on and coming on. It's almost like those two are picking off the competition when they get too close._ Jed had thought it a crazy idea, something he was imagining, until Heath offered that same opinion, night before last. _And here it was, happening again._ Two of the three groups had fallen back, outdistanced and diverted as Jed and Heath had pushed the pace and muddled their trail; soon after, they had vanished from the chase entirely. Replacing them was the same pair of riders that had been implacably following them for over a hundred miles of hill country. They, too, had been left behind for now, but Jed had no doubt they would be hounding them again in no time.

He looked ahead at the bay colt, who was pulling ahead of his mare with his big smooth gallop, and at Heath, balanced low over Charger's shoulders and moving as though the horse was an extension of his own body. Heath glanced back at him; they both put on more speed and shared a smile at the improbable joy of the moment. Nothing ahead, nothing behind, just speed and open sky and the river and good horses.

 _ **Inyo Range, Six days earlier, December 21, 1874**_

"Kin? How you figure?" Heath asked benignly, as he watched Jed thoughtfully roll himself a smoke. He phrased it as a question, but as soon as he spoke it, he realized that he felt absolutely no surprise. Then he began to wonder – with some degree of worry - if anyone else in the family had been considering the possibility. He took a deep breath and tried to shoo away such worried thoughts as unnecessary distractions. _What was it Teleli kept saying? 'Stay quiet and open, Meh-weh'._ _That was it. 'Stay quiet and open. It is always better to understand.'_ He waited.

Glancing up from the paper and tobacco in his fingers, Jed tried to assess Heath's reaction before continuing. Earlier, as they had talked, Jed had sketched out for Heath the basic facts of his origins and upbringing, by way of explaining how he had come to be Montana's deputy. Now, prompted by Heath's protective suspicion that Jed might have a romantic interest in Audra - _an instinct all of Audra's brothers should have in spades,_ he thought, suppressing a grin. _How not?_ \- Jed had confessed an idea that had been nagging at him since he had met this Barkley family.

Heath was listening, calmly, so Jed figured he could go ahead and explain himself.

"I don't mean to make a big thing outta this," he said. "Ain't no way to know such a thing for sure, who my father is, because of what my mother – my birth mother – did for a living before I was born. My Mama – Abigail Brown, that is, who raised me – said Salome didn't know and didn't care which man got her with child. She was just happy about it. She got out of the saloon, and was learning to be a healer like my Mama when she died.

"My parents never really talked about it either, and I never felt a need to ask. What do I care about a man who went to a brothel? I _had_ parents. Hiram Brown was my father. Mama was my mother.

"Mama did say once, though, when she was cutting my hair, that my birth father must have been very blonde, because Salome was so dark, and I, well, I came out looking like the mixed-breed I am." He offered this with a half-smile, wanting to soften his words with humor. He could see a very stormy expression developing on Heath's face.

"Don't speak of yourself like that," he responded gruffly. "Plenty of folks out there ready to call you names and tell you you're somethin' less. They don't need your help."

Surprised, Jed took that in, silenced for a moment by the weight of Heath's serious gaze. He swallowed and wondered if maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut. After all, he might have to ride with this cowboy for weeks, maybe, just the two of them – and through who knows what kind of trouble. Stirring up a conversation like this was starting to look like a very bad idea.

 _Guess I spilled half of it, I might as well dump out the rest and hope he doesn't decide to try to whup me. I promised Jarrod I would bring him home safe. Hope I won't have to hurt him._ He kept his eyes on Heath and went on.

"So then, I met Audra. We were passing time up there in the old Indian village with Rivka and Ilsa, and she told me some about her – about _your_ – father. Talked about how she missed him and was angry with him, and how when she was little she liked that she favored him more than did either of her brothers. _Tow-headed,_ she said he called the two of them. 'Cause they were both so fair-haired." He saw Heath nodding, understanding where he was going with this.

"That got me remembering that Raul had been friends with Tom and Victoria Barkley. Tom was well known around Sonora. Spent plenty of time there." Jed spoke softly, his voice growing reluctant once more, but now there was an appeal in his eyes, and Heath began to realize it had nothing to do with Tom Barkley. It had to do with his brothers and his sister, and _that_ feeling Heath understood very well.

"Meeting Audra started me thinking about things," Jed spoke with a gentle smile. "I felt so easy with her, and I wondered why – and with Jarrod, too – I felt a - a _trust_ , maybe – see, Jarrod sent me to come find you. I kept wondering why he asked **_me_** , and why it didn't even occur to me to say no."

"I've been asking myself the same question," Heath murmured, studying the boy's face. "It was a wrong-headed decision to make, on the face of it. But Jarrod gets a _sense_ about things sometimes. And I don't even know exactly what I mean by that."

There was a pause, during which both men took a deep breath and tried to ease the intensity of the moment. "Well," Jed concluded, in a lighter tone. "No need to speculate, or trouble the rest of the family, really. I'll never know, and it doesn't matter – it just never crossed my mind as a question until now. I probably shouldn't have said anything, but I was worried you were gonna try to fight me over Audra, and I didn't think you needed any more beatin' up than you'd already had." He offered this last jibe with a slight grin, hoping maybe they could drop the subject.

 _No need to speculate._ Heath watched the teasing half-smile that tugged at Jed's mouth and knew it to be something his brothers and sisters would recognize. He felt suddenly breathless. The memory of his father's anxious voice intruded into his mind, clear as a bell.

 _"…a bastard child would really be a catastrophe at this juncture. Terrible to even think about. This boy's much too old, of course – no need to speculate. Still, he looks so familiar. Wish I knew why…"_

Breathless – and then he was near certain of it. _No need to speculate._

 _No facts or proof, really, but a strong feeling. I wonder if Jarrod even knows why he asked Jed to come after me._

Heath considered the young man sitting across from him. Jed clearly wanted Heath to let the father question go for now, fearful he would injure the connection he had felt with Tom Barkley's legitimate children. As for the father himself and his legacy, Jed seemed to have no need or interest – far less, even, than Heath himself had had.

Leah's love had given Tom's memory some worth and dimension in Heath's mind. The realities Heath had come to learn regarding his father, over these past weeks, had been brutally painful, far more than he ever would have expected them to be. That pain had since eased to an acceptable ache, soothed by time and, ironically, by Morgan's scornful accounts of his father's 'weakness' regarding his bastard son.

Ultimately, though, the memory of his father was insubstantial and unnourishing. That emptiness filled Heath with a sickening sense of desolation, when he considered it from the perspective of a man who hoped someday soon to become a husband and a father. He felt grief and horror, but it was not for the unknown children like himself and Jed, who could follow a different path and build their own families. The desolation, he realized, belonged to men like Tom Barkley, who fathered children to whom they meant nothing.

Heath shook off that gloomy image with a stern reminder that he was not his father in that respect. He turned his attention back to Jed, who was speaking with earnest concern.

"Heath, like I said to Jarrod, I'll do whatever I can to bring you back safe. He wanted to come after you himself, but he's trying to get you and Teleli out from under the law, so he had to go to Sacramento. But it ain't the legal stuff that drove you out here. You need more than an amnesty to get home. Right? You need your family and Rivka. I get why you don't want to keep running, though I promised Jarrod I would argue his case to you."

Heath shook his head in amazement. His smile was grim. "Boy howdy, I guess if I gotta have a trail partner while I make this run up the valley, he might as well be kin, right?" Becoming serious, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, regarding Jed intently. "Listen up. I'm going to Sonora, with or without amnesty. Kin or not, Deputy, you ain't turning me off course or locking me down, and for sure you ain't getting' hurt 'cause of me. I'll ditch you first, 'fore I let you get in the line of fire, you understand me? I'll ditch you."

Jed met his stare with a smile of his own. "You can try," he tossed back.

 _ **Barkley Ranch, December 24, 1874**_

 _I'm guessing it's Jim Roberts coming to help from Mariposa – he was traveling that way on his way back to Nevada._

John was pacing now, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, and frowning at the rug in concentration. Jarrod's mention of his former deputy had sent his mind reviewing the mountain of evidence Roberts and that Thomas kid had brought back from Jamestown. So far, that catalogue of incriminating documentation had not moved the Governor from his intransigent position regarding Teleli and his "accomplice". There had to be another angle, another direction, another way to apply pressure and get that boulder moving – preferably in a direction that would not crush Heath and Teleli in its path.

He barely heard the debate that had been sparked by his first idea: that the Governor should prosecute the 9th District U.S. Marshal who brought this whole conflict to a head, rather than Heath and Teleli. This suggestion met with a flat rejection by everyone present, with the partial exception of Nick, who thought perhaps Jarrod could successfully defend John in the courtroom. John was no longer really listening. The mental image of the chest full of documents had intruded and demanded his attention. The chest – the ledger – hidden in the adit of a mineshaft by Sheriff Martin Peale.

"Peale," John muttered to himself. He disliked the idea that was taking shape in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he disliked it – and the more certain he was that it would work. Peale – bigoted, unpleasant, self-serving, and vicious – Peale himself could be the weapon that would protect this family John loved.

 ** _Merced River, Sierra Nevada, western foothills, December 27, 1874_**

Charger crested the ridge first, with Aquila, Jed's mare, not far behind. The horses were lathered and blowing a bit; as for the riders, Jed was definitely feeling the exertion, and Heath was about done in.

"Gonna get to that cover there, up ahead – can watch our back trail from there – I just gotta – gotta rest a minute." Heath was hunched over and looked close to falling from his horse. Charger, as if aware of this, picked his pace up to a smooth jog, aiming to get to the cluster of rocks and pines as quickly and painlessly as possible. He came to a halt in the shade of a big twisted pine. Heath patted his neck, murmuring praise, and slid to the ground. He staggered a few paces away and then collapsed.

Jed hurried over to him. "What is it?"

Heath swore as best he could while trying to catch his breath, his expression a mask of annoyance and frustration. He looked up at Jed's concerned face and managed to restrain himself from another string of profanity. He grimaced instead and looked away. "Just sick and tired of being always so sick and so...so goddamned **_tired_** ," he gritted out, closing his eyes. "God, everything hurts. Just wears me down." He squinted up at Jed. "And **_you_**. _You_ make me feel like I'm 'bout 90 years old."

Jed grinned down at him. "Sorry, old man."

"I'm serious," Heath said, wrapping both arms around his chest and taking a few slow, careful breaths, his eyes now on the clouds scudding by overhead. Right then every broken bone and scar and bruise and scrape in his body felt like a smoldering coal, just waiting for a breeze to burst into flames. The pain weighed him down; made it hard to move; made it hard to stay still. He groaned under his breath, trying unsuccessfully to find some position to ease the aching. "I'm slowing us down. Those hunters will be coming back into sight and will be breathing down our necks again in the next few hours.

"I told you I'd ditch you, Jed, and I will, if we can't stay out of shooting range of those two guys. You can move a heck of a lot faster without me."

Jed sat down next to him, shaking his head. "Nope. You can try, old man. You can try, but you can't shake me."


	92. Chapter 91 - Heritage of Heart

_THE anguish of the earth absolves our eyes  
Till beauty shines in all that we can see.  
War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise,  
And, fighting for our freedom, we are free._

 _Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,  
And loss of things desired; all these must pass.  
We are the happy legion, for we know  
Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass._

 _There was an hour when we were loth to part  
From life we longed to share no less than others.  
Now, having claimed this heritage of heart,  
What need we more, my comrades and my brothers?_

 _Siegfried Sassoon, "Absolution"_

* * *

 _ **Mariposa County, 9 miles east of Coulterville, California. December 28, 1874**_

The two hunters – one tall and lanky, the other stocky and muscular - were paid well for their efforts. They had been outfitted with good gear and sound horses, and they had been handed a full third of the reward money up front, in gold. The weight of that pay in their saddlebags was just pleasant enough to give them a powerful desire for the rest that was coming to them. That desire had kept them after the kid deputy marshal and that cowboy-gone-native for going on a week; the payout would be enough of a Christmas present to make it all worthwhile.

They had no interest in the kid marshal, except to take his prisoner away from him. They would hobble him, one way or another, sure, but that was about the extent of it. The cowboy was where the money was. There was a small reward on him. The big reward, though, was for the Indian. The cowboy knew where to find him, dead or alive. So before they turned the cowboy in for their payout, the hunters planned to get that information out of him, one way or another.

The job was wearing awfully thin, though. It had been hard, dusty, messy work just keeping on the deputy's trail, not to mention the effort and risk involved in taking out the other hunters that happened to get in their way. And for all that sweat, they still had been able to get only so close to the men they sought. Unless they caught a break, their chances of catching the cowboy before he made it to Sonora were looking pretty slim.

They pulled up their mounts along the south bank of the Merced River. The horses dropped their heads to have a drink. The stocky man fished in his saddlebags for a smoke. His companion was about to dismount and fill up his canteen when he heard a sound of rolling gravel and some inarticulate, frustrated sounds of struggle. He pulled out his handgun.

"What the hell was that?" he husked, scanning the opposite river bank intently. The stocky man was instantly on alert as well, his smoke forgotten. Out of long habit, they turned their horses to position themselves back-to-back, while their eyes searched the steep, rocky sides of the river valley for threats – or their quarry.

"There." He pointed.

It appeared as though they had caught a break after all. The two men glanced at each other with a restrained look of triumph. Not so much triumph that they would get sloppy, of course. They could celebrate later. Grinning, they kneed their horses and forded the river.

"Hey, boy, you look like you could use some help there."

The two men smirked up at the young deputy, who appeared to have been roughed up, tied up, and left on the ground in a stand of oak trees about thirty yards up the slope from the river bed. He left off his efforts to get loose from the rope that bound his wrists and his ankles to glare down at them with what appeared to be equal parts embarrassment and rage. The hunters noted immediately the absence of his sidearm and rifle – and his horse, for that matter.

"What happened, boy? Your prisoner get the best 'a you?"

The initial response was a stream of muffled curses, as the kid tried again to abrade the rope on his wrists against the rocks. The two hunters shook their heads with a hint of professional sympathy. After all, the kid had done good staying ahead of them all this time. Too bad the injun-loving cowboy decided to repay the deputy's protection with _this_.

"All right, settle down, kid. How long ago'd he jump ya? How much of a head start has he got?"

The kid stopped struggling again and stared down at them, breathing hard. He was silent for a moment, undecided. "About two, two-and-a-half hours," he finally said reluctantly. "Just before sunup. Took my horse, my guns – _goddammit_ –" he looked away, furious again. Got control of himself. "Look, you can pick up his trail right here," he said, pointing with his chin at the rising ground right beside him. "I don't care, dammit, you can have 'im, just cut me loose." He looked steaming mad – and very young. The hunters pulled out their rifles, took one more cautious look at the wooded hills around them, then dismounted and started up the steep slope.

They were about ten paces shy of where the kid lay when the stocky man sensed movement below and spun in alarm. "The horses -!" He heard a grunted gasp of surprise from the tall man beside him. He whirled back to confront the kid – but the kid was gone. His **_partner_** was gone.

"Wha...?" He had no time to say anything else before he felt himself flying up into the air with impossible speed. Up, up into the trees, upside-down, dangling from the treetop by his ankles. He and his partner, there they were, both swinging from the tree branches like a pair of Christmas tree ornaments.

* * *

 _ **North Fork, Merced River, December 28, 1874**_

 _I'll ditch you._

 _You can try,_ he had challenged Heath, when they set out on this trail a week ago. What then followed, for the next several minutes, was a silent stare-down while they both considered whether or not that was true.

Jed was pretty sure Heath _could_ ditch him, if he deemed it absolutely, desperately necessary. As drained and worn out and beat up as he was, he could see Heath had reserves of pure grit, hidden underground like veins of ore to be mined. Jed could accept that. He could also see Heath didn't really _want_ to ditch him. He didn't want to be set against him. What Heath wanted was to go home and be with his girl, and he didn't want Jed to suffer any harm for having ridden out to find him.

So they stared at each other. Heath had dropped his eyes first, having reached some kind of decision in his own mind.

 _You're gonna have to arrest me, Jed._

 ** _Arrest_** _you? Why? We're both riding to the same place. You're no danger to anyone. I don't want to -_

 _Jed, how the hell can you explain yourself otherwise? OK, **maybe** you could pull off that story of getting caught off your guard, one time, and letting me get away. But if you're going to insist on riding with me, you can't not arrest me. First of all, you're required to. It's your job, and it's the law. Second, I'm gonna attract bounty hunters like flies to a picnic. You need to stake your claim. I doubt it'll scare off all the poachers, you'll still have that problem to deal with, but it oughta at least help keep the amateurs away._

Heath had been right about most of that, Jed admitted. _Flies to a picnic._ Right about all of it, but it sure didn't feel good to him to file those papers in Glennville, or to write it to Jarrod. _Hey, Merry Christmas, your brother's alive, but I had to arrest him._

 ** _Our_** _brother?_ That was an odd thought. He wasn't sure what to think about that, except that it was a question that couldn't be answered, and so he had put it aside. They had had plenty else to keep them busy once they headed north from Glennville. Plenty else – they'd been pushed hard, hard enough to where Heath was back to telling Jed to ride clear of him and get out of harm's way. They both knew the two hunters wouldn't go after the marshal if they split up.

Jed had insisted they go on the offense instead. He smiled, remembering the argument, and the trap Heath had laid.

 _With those two hound dogs taken care of, maybe now we have a clear shot to get home._

They made sure to cover several miles upstream in the river before turning off at a pleasant, sheltered side canyon. They tended to all four horses, set up camp, and tended to their own ravenous appetites, making liberal use of the hunter's ample provisions. They completed their tasks silently, for the most part, working easily and intuitively together.

Jed was dead tired and ready for this trek to be over. He paused in his building of a fire pit to watch Heath deftly assemble a handful of snares, clever miniatures of the ones he had set to catch those two hunters.

 _Yep, I'm about as worn out as I can ever remember being,_ Jed admitted to himself, _and I ain't the one who's been beat all to hell for the past six months. I don't know how he even keeps going._

Thoughtful, he went back to breaking up kindling. Tried to imagine it was Rafaela he was fighting to get back to, and Raul, and the homestead his parents had tended so carefully, where he hoped to bring his own bride someday. His whole future. He thought then, maybe, he had an inkling of what kept Heath moving forward.

"Head's up."

Jed looked up in time to catch the flask of whiskey Heath had tossed his way with a tired grin. Heath eased himself carefully down to the ground beside the fire and leaned back against one of the saddles with a groan. He was looking toward the river flowing just beyond the mouth of the canyon. Jed saw him take several slow, deliberate breaths, his gaze narrowed with an inward focus, as if he was listening for something. His hands were shaking slightly; he wiped them down the front of his shirt, one of Jed's he had borrowed. Gradually, he seemed to relax, just a little.

"Y'all right?"

Heath glanced at him, looking a bit surprised and uncomfortable with the question. "Me? Yeah - yeah, I'm all right." He regarded Jed silently as the deputy took a pull from the flask and leaned back to enjoy the heat of it going down. Their eyes met, and Jed saw his expression ease and a slight smile return to his face. Tipping his head toward the river, he asked, "Jed, you ever been all the way upstream to the Yosemite Valley?"

"No, never have. I've heard it's somethin' to see, though."

Heath nodded, his gaze distant again, but calmer. " _Somethin'_ is right. Like God's own cathedral, that valley, if there was such a thing on earth. And the fishing in the summer, well, that's my idea of heaven." He looked back out toward the river, the murmuring flow lost to sight now as the dusk came on. "Maybe we can all go up for a fishing trip sometime. What's your girl like? She one for roughing it?"

Jed laughed. "Is she ever. First time we met, I was seven, and she was six. We had a picnic, my family and Raul's. I thought she was a boy. We took off together and played all day out in the woods until it got dark. We got an earful when we got back – then I found out she was a girl -" Heath was laughing now as well. "- because her mama sent her inside to clean up and get a dress on. She was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen." He handed the flask over to Heath. "I been in love with her ever since."

There was a roll of gravel, footsteps, movement - coming up from the river.

"Evenin', boys. Nice campsite you got here."

Jed had his gun in his hand and his eyes on his target so fast, Heath would swear afterward it was a magic trick. He'd never in his life seen anyone draw like that, or move so quick. Before he could even get his sore, stiff body moving, it seemed, Jed had positioned himself between Heath and what sounded like two men, still out of sight in the shadows. There was a brief, tense silence. Heath quietly got his hand on his boot knife, thinking, _I know that voice._

Then came a second voice that boomed up the canyon, startling birds into flight.

" ** _Heath!_** Tell that pup to stand down, boy. I don't want him shootin' us by accident."

 _Nick._ Heath fell back against the saddle behind him with a laugh and a wave of relief so strong it left him feeling completely boneless. All he could do for a moment was smile at the sky.


	93. Chapter 92 - Honor

_Honor is venerable to us because it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient virtue. We worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it and pay it homage, because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old immaculate pedigree, even if shown in a young person._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"_

* * *

 _ **North Fork, Merced River, December 28, 1874**_

 _Nick._

Heath let himself just stare up at the stars emerging in the night sky over the canyon. Just for a breath or two, he let himself be still; let himself feel safe, at rest, and almost home.

He lifted his head to see Jed smile a greeting and yield his defensive position to Nick's approach with a casual salute and obvious relief. The deputy holstered his sidearm and walked out to greet Jim Roberts.

Nick was a tall, bulky shape in his winter coat, hurrying toward him out of the shadows; he was such a welcome sight, for one crazy second, Heath had an image of his brother's approach heralded by a flock of singing angels.

The image made Heath laugh even as he turned his attention to the task of getting his aching body up off the ground. Call it pride, but he dearly wanted to meet Nick standing on his own two feet. It took a little effort, but Heath managed to get himself upright and steady before he was swallowed up in the big man's embrace.

Nick didn't know what he was going to find when he and Roberts rode to the area of rendezvous Jed had chosen. _We are well,_ Jed had written, but that wire had been sent days before, and who knew what had happened in the meantime. The sight of the two men in their camp - looking more or less healthy and in one piece - lifted a mountain's weight of worry from Nick's heart. He felt as though he could breathe freely for the first time in weeks.

It had been almost a month since he had last seen Heath. Twenty-five days, to be exact. He had been counting. Twenty- _six_ days ago, he watched his brother back away from him and Jarrod, a look of exhausted, isolated, mortal despair in his eyes, while deadly diseases and a hostile army kept Nick from following Heath to stand at his side.

The following day, twenty-five days ago, he had seen the snow of a mountain clearing soaked red with his brother's blood, a memory that still caused his heart to race. He had seen Heath as a distant shadow, looking back at him over an impassable valley of snow and ice and rock, out of reach. There had not been a day since that Nick had not wondered if that glimpse had been his last.

He couldn't get his arms around the boy soon enough.

It still took a minute or two for belief to solidify – _he is alive, he is here, he is OK -_ before Nick could let go, step back, and look him over. He held him out at arm's length, studying him; Heath, uncharacteristically, did not object, but just watched him with a hint of a smile. Nick saw and felt much of what Jed had observed; Heath was weathered dark as pinewood, and felt just as lean and battered. External details - evidence of new and old injuries, the lack of weapons, the patchwork of clothing – Nick noted and filed aside. What he sensed – and was trying to prove by the evidence of his sight – was that Heath seemed actually **_well._** He seemed, as Jarrod would have said, present and accounted for; the love, joy and relief Nick could see in Heath's eyes was unguarded and bright, and while Nick wouldn't go so far as to describe him as _peaceful_ , he thought, Heath seemed…grounded.

Nick did not, in general, assign words to such thoughts, worries, and hopes as they percolated in his head. He was looking for what _feeling_ he got about his brother and his state of mind; and so, after a minute of unusual, silent study, all he said was: "You look good, Heath. You look good." He shook him slightly, hands on his shoulders.

Heath's smile widened a bit, knowing how much lay behind that banal greeting. "No I don't, Nick. I look like a beat up mountain lion about five years past his fightin' prime, and I spook way too easy. But I'm a whole lot less crazy than I was, and I can work with that." He studied Nick's face fondly, shaking his head in amazement at his brother's unexpected appearance. His feelings were equally vast, and for the moment, equally inarticulate. Emotion had reduced his voice to a near-whisper. "It's good to see you, Nick."

"Well, don't you two boys have a way with words. Regular Shakespeares, the both of you."

"Jim," Heath greeted the marshal with genuine pleasure. "I heard Smith had to call you in from Nevada so you could rope in Peale and bust this case wide open. The way Jed here tells it, you and Jarrod are the heroes of this whole showdown."

"Not entirely true," Jim grinned, "but close. Peale's box of notarized and organized documents was a prosecutor's dream. Almost made up for the awfulness of having to take him myself up to Sonora." He shuddered slightly. "That man's mouth…"

 _Peale did have an uncanny sense of where to latch on and start feeding on a person,_ Heath thought, remembering his own encounter with Sheriff Peale. _Was that only a month ago?_

 _" **Deputy** Heath Barkley, is it now? The family charity case, working for wages? Huh. Ranch hand, more like. Mine worker. Grunt work. You're just barely out of **prison**. So is that it? It's a work release?" His eyes now slid gleefully to John. "Quite the high-level escort, aren't you, Marshal?"_

Heath glanced at Nick, remembering his confident hand on his shoulder. _John knows what he's doing._

He sighed. That uncomfortable knot of disappointment in himself twisted in his gut. _Seems pretty clear John's confidence was misplaced. I'll have to face up to that when I get home. Thank God he's healing up._

"I don't know how you managed it," Heath said, turning his attention back to Jim. "I mean, Peale got _Audra_ to bust him in the mouth inside of ten minutes **."**

"Audra did **_what_**?" Nick rounded on Heath.

"Guess you didn't hear that story yet."

"I guess I didn't."

Jim wrapped a comradely arm around Heath's shoulders, gesturing broadly with his other hand. "Peale is the worst kind of gargoyle. You, on the other hand, are a fine man, Heath, truly the best prisoner I think I've ever had the pleasure of taking into custody. And thanks to Jed, here we are again, like old times, Heath. If you have to be a compulsory guest of the US Marshal Service, I'm your man."

"Appreciate that, Jim," Heath managed, squirming slightly under the deputy marshal's affectionate but questionable sense of humor.

"You should thank Martin Peale. One day of transporting a man like him _really_ makes me appreciate a prisoner like you."

"And **_you_** should thank Heath," Jed commented. "Arresting him wasn't my idea, it was his."

"Well, doesn't _that_ figure," Nick grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Heath." Jim Roberts suddenly grew serious and turned Heath to look him in the eye. Nick saw his brother meet the marshal's intent regard; saw him take a few deep breaths; lift his chin; straighten his shoulders.

 _Heath knows what's coming,_ Nick thought.

Jed was also watching Heath closely; protectively even, though it was clear he did not yet understand what Heath was waiting to hear. Nick studied him with renewed interest, as he could see that a strong connection had grown up between Heath and this young deputy. He had not missed Jed's immediate defense of Heath when they first made their presence known in the canyon. Nick was impressed; Jed's instinct was protective, his draw was blindingly fast, and he moved like lightning.

Jim waited until he had eye contact with Heath; even then, he paused, frowning, his lips pressed into a thin line. When he finally spoke, there was no more humor in his voice.

"Heath. Where is Teleli?"

Heath shook his head.

Jim's gaze shifted to Nick, then Jed, and then back to Heath, who stood with the aspect of one patiently awaiting a preordained sentence.

"Oh, _Hell_ ," Jim muttered, clearly reluctant to go on.

"Just spit it out, Jim," Nick scowled.

Jed was watching their faces with increasing alarm. He knew he wasn't getting it yet, whatever it was Heath was waiting to hear, but he knew it wasn't good.

Jim blew out the breath he had been holding, resigned to his role of messenger. "OK. Here's the deal from Sacramento. Amnesty for you, Heath, **_if_** you give up Teleli."


	94. Chapter 93 - Faithful

_For Nature ever faithful is  
To such as trust her faithfulness.  
When the forest shall mislead me,  
When the night and morning lie,  
When sea and land refuse to feed me,  
'T will be time enough to die;  
Then will yet my mother yield  
A pillow in her greenest field,  
Nor the June flowers scorn to cover  
The clay of their departed lover._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Wood Notes"_

* * *

 _Tears may soothe the wounds they cannot heal._

 _Thomas Paine_

* * *

 _ **Sonora, California, December 30, 1874**_

The complex, mathematical patterns of a Bach concerto emerged from a small log cabin on the southern verge of Sonora, the notes animated by the rich, resonant voice of a Guarnieri violin. The early sunset of the midwinter afternoon laid down long shadows, and bathed in an orange glow the broad pasture that surrounded the dwelling. Close by the cabin stood a tall black horse. Her breath steamed in the cooling air as she gazed out over her new home. Nox listened to the music. She was drowsy and peaceful in the knowledge that her family was close by.

A moment later, responding to something only she could sense, the mare came fully awake and alert. The music continued, nothing obvious had changed, but Nox lifted her head and pivoted, dancing, to look far across the pasture toward the hills and the road south. She whickered low in her chest and scented the air, searching with eyes and ears and nose for the man she suddenly knew was nearby.

Four riders emerged from the woods, coming in to Sonora from the south, on the road from Wards Ferry. They were indistinct, dusty figures in the fading daylight, travelling close together at steady walk. As they came into view, Nox – normally not a noisy horse - snorted, pranced, and whinnied loudly. The violin music stopped abruptly, and Nox called again, her attention fully on the approaching riders. Her family in the cabin now hurried outside, curious and a little worried to see the cause of her agitation.

One of the distant riders spotted her and reined in near the pasture fence. His eyes on Nox, he dismounted slowly, and left his mount ground tied by the side of the road. He did not spare a glance for the three men with him. He seemed stiff and painful in his movement, and walked with a noticeable limp, though he climbed the pasture fence with no hesitation.

His companions, on the other hand, appeared initially not to notice that he had turned aside. By the time they realized he was no longer with them, they were already several lengths further on. At a slow jog, the three backtracked to the point where he had left his horse, and pulled up to wait for him by the road. He walked alone a few more paces into the field and stopped, waiting.

Nox snorted; she shook her head; she reared up. Her wild black mane lifted in the wind like a battle standard. Her hooves flashed through the air, and then they struck the earth with a sound that spoke of thunder, of drums, of a beating heart.

He stood still, and waited.

She charged.

Nick held up a hand to stop Jed and Jim from running in to rescue Heath from the giant, crazy, charging horse that was right then barreling down on him like a runaway train.

"He's fine. The horse is fine. They know each other. It's fine." Nick was gritting his teeth and gripping his saddle horn ferociously. He knew exactly what Jim and Jed were feeling, because he was feeling it too. _Goddammit, Heath, you damn well **better** be fine. Don't you dare make a liar outta me, Heath – _"This is a little game they play," _I think._ "It's fine."

Jim leaned forward in his saddle and made an anxious sort of noise. Jed, having met the giant mare in Sutamasina, found it a little easier to trust. Nick took off his hat and ran a nervous hand through his hair.

Heath waited. He watched her come. He could feel the drumbeat of her gallop in his bones. She stopped right in front of him and reared up again. He watched her tower over him, and watched her drop back down, snorting, steaming and dancing in place.

He opened his arms.

She lowered her head, and stepped readily into his embrace.

"See? What'd I tell you," Nick said with a forced smile of confidence that did not fool the two marshals. "They're _fine_." He wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his shirt, and kept his eyes on his brother.

Heath's arms were wrapped around the mare's neck, his hands and face hidden in her mane. For a long while he stayed like that. He spoke to her. Nick could tell, even though Heath couldn't be heard, because the horse was clearly listening. She showed no inclination to step away from him. On the contrary, she would swing her big head around periodically to nudge him closer with her soft nose, as if she wanted to hug him back.

He cried some, too. Nick was certain of that. Nick felt no impatience. As far as he was concerned, his brother could take as much time as he needed, as much time as he damn well _pleased_ with that horse, and Nick would stand watch while he did.


	95. Chapter 94 - Up from the Wilderness

_Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness,_

 _leaning upon her beloved?_

 _I raised thee up under the apple tree:_

 _there thy mother brought thee forth;_

 _there she brought thee forth that bare thee._

 _Set me as a seal upon thine heart,_

 _as a seal upon thine arm:_

 _for love is strong as death._

 _Song of Solomon 8_

* * *

 _ **Village of Sutamasina, three days earlier, December 26, 1874**_

Moshe drew his wagon to a halt in front of the gate of the newly incorporated Village of Sutamasina. The forbidding stockade barrier through which Heath and Rivka had walked almost a month ago remained, but it stood open now in welcome. The Miwok children had decorated the entire surface with a lively abstract design in green and yellow, using paints and brushes Audra had brought from Sonora. The bright colors needed no translation; they spoke of life, survival, and growth. Hannah could not help but smile at the hope and joy given voice in each of those hundreds of small brushstrokes.

 _Hope, survival, joy._ She turned to embrace Peter, Ilsa and Moshe once more before she climbed down from the wagon. Her heart was full of gratitude for the miracle of this family - for their survival, their reunion, and the arrival of their new baby – and the feeling seemed to keep overflowing and spilling in tears down her cheeks. They all smiled wetly at each other, and she waved as they turned to drive back to Sonora.

Hannah knew her weeping was, in no small part, due to being already full up with tears, from weeks of not knowing if her boy was lost forever.

 _Don't take much to make me cry lately. No, not much at all._

Heath was _alive_ , this they had been told, but beyond that, she had had no information. Hannah knew, better than most: **_alive_** did not necessarily mean **_well_**.

It had not taken long to convince Nick to take her along yesterday, when he packed up to go after Heath. Audra and Victoria merely accepted her decision. Silas had fussed on the idea. John and Jarrod frowned and worried. _But Nick_ \- **_he_** _understood,_ Hannah thought. _Couldn't neither one of us wait at home anymore._

Hannah had to admit, as Nick rode south out of Sonora at dawn this morning with that marshal, that she felt a warm, rare, blessed feeling of trust. _Funny thing,_ she thought with some amusement. _I could see it, the very day I met that man; that brother who growled and fought and damn near got my boy killed those first months with this family. I could see why Heath never quit on him. Heath knew this was a brother worth the fight, worth the wait._

It eased her mind, seeing Nick ride off to find Heath. Eased it enough so she could turn to what needed doing right now. Hannah was here to find Rivka.

 _That girl was smart, strong and brave,_ she thought _._ Rivka was soldiering on alone, immersed in her work since Heath's disappearance, but Hannah knew what a grievous, deadly, steadily bleeding wound she bore in her heart. Hannah could hear it in what Audra had told her when she returned to Stockton. Rivka needed some tending to, and soon.

She walked through the cheerful yellow and green gate, taking in the activity all around her. There were small groups of adults and older children engaged in a variety of tasks wherever she looked. They were taking down strings of barbed wire, coiling it carefully for later use or sale; they were building a sizable well- and wash-house; they were clearing and plowing acres of field; and they were all over the barn, replacing siding, beams, and roof shingles. Off to her right, there was a large open-sided tent, within which it appeared all of the smaller children had gathered. Lessons were underway, and Hannah listened to the young Miwok man who stood in the middle of the group, speaking with animation.

"Now it's time to pick which story we'll tell to finish lessons today." There rose a chorus of shouted requests and suggestions. The young man raised his hand for silence. "I told you, the child who wrote the most correct sentences this morning would get to choose, right? OK, so today that would be Kono." A little boy of about eight bounced to his feet, grinning. "What will it be, Kono?"

"Tell the story of how Kono and Malila and Me'weh found water for the village!"

"OK, Kono, c'mon up here by me. You know the rules. I'll tell a part, and then you have to tell it in English, to practice. Got it?" Smiling, the young man opened his mouth to start the tale, then stopped, silent, when his eye fell on Hannah.

Hannah was used to being invisible. White people, for the most part, did not see her, unless she had a strong personal relationship with them. She had learned from a young age to use that to her advantage; she had learned to listen and watch, when necessary, in order to keep herself and her loved ones safe.

From the moment she had stepped in the gate of this village, however, she sensed something was different. The Miwok were not hostile or even remotely threatening. Yet, busy as they were in their work all around her, they noticed her. They were curious, no doubt; but Hannah found herself amused and interested by how they _looked_ at her. In Strawberry, even right here in Sonora, as she walked down the main street, folks did not _look_ at her any more than they looked at a common jaybird or a stray cat crossing the alley. Here, suddenly, she was visible. She was a stranger, yes, but she was a _person_ : she was an elder woman they did not know, walking through their village.

None of her thinking about _that_ difference, though, prepared her for what happened next.

The young man teacher stopped and stared at her, and his rapt pupils immediately turned to see what had caught his attention.

"Hannah…?" Husu said, suddenly breathless, and just barely loud enough for her to hear. She stopped too, then, and looked at him. Saw the scars over his chest and arms.

"Hannah! It's Hannah!" The cry went up among the children, spreading rapidly through the camp, and all at once, Hannah found herself not only _visible_ , but the center of the children's attention. Wading through the excited group, Husu came to greet her with tears in his eyes. Hannah, of course, was weeping again too.

"Look at you, all grown up," she said, with a smile.

"Look at **_you_**. Hannah the brown-skinned woman. I always said you were the true hero of that story."

"Haja, Haja, come quick, it's Hannah!" Several of the children sprinted off toward the barn, wanting to be the first to bring the news to their headwoman.

Haja welcomed her warmly and escorted her toward the barn, where Rivka was tending to patients and setting up a washing and surgery area. They stepped inside the quiet murmur of the building. It seemed very dim at first, by comparison to the sunshine outdoors, but Hannah's eyes soon adapted, and she spotted Rivka at a desk in the corner, making careful entries into a large logbook. Even at that distance, it was clear she was thinner, and pale; the angularity of her face was further exaggerated by her serious expression and the plain, dark dress she wore. Hannah and Haja shared a concerned glance.

"She has not been eating well at all," Haja confirmed to Hannah's unspoken question. "She does not seem to sleep much either. She works all the time – there is always work to be done, yes? And you see how much she has done?" Haja swept her arm in a broad gesture. "She is a wonderful, wonderful doctor. She has so many skills, so much knowledge, and such a healing way with anyone who needs her. But she does not rest."

Hannah nodded. "That's what I was worried about."

"She was much better when Audra was here. They would do almost everything together, and Audra would make sure Rivka took a break, and ate a meal and got some sleep. They were good together, those two," she smiled, remembering. "They would laugh, and comfort each other, and Audra was learning so much from Rivka. Since she went back home a few days ago - well – it is worse, for Rivka. Also -" She paused, studying Rivka's shadowed figure with a puzzled tilt of her head.

"Also what, Haja?"

"It is not just Audra being gone that is making it worse, I think. She has been sick. Something is different."

Hannah felt a new fear rolling over in her gut. "What about her family?"

"I asked about that – whether she should ask them to come. She said no – very strongly no. She writes to them, but to come to her – no. I do not know why. Maybe you can find out?" Rivka's refusal of her family's help clearly bothered Haja deeply. She wrung her hands and looked at Rivka with affection, respect, and fearful confusion. She managed a smile as she turned back to Hannah. "There is word that Me'weh is alive. Rivka wept when she heard this. We all hope and hope it is true. He fled with Teleli – we hope Teleli my brother still lives, but no one knows anything about that. Me'weh will tell us. When he comes back, he will be with Rivka again, and he will give us news of Teleli."

 _Soon, please soon,_ Hannah thought. Nick had shown her on the map where they expected to find Heath and Jed. It was not far. _Rivka needs you, Heath. Something is different._


	96. Chapter 95 - Our Spirits Burn

_Who shall redeem it anew? but we, if thou wilt, let us fly;  
Let us take to us, now that the white skies thrill with a moon unarisen,  
Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and depart and not die.  
They are swifter than dreams, they are stronger than death; there is none that hath ridden,  
None that shall ride in the dim strange ways of his life as we ride;  
By the meadows of memory, the highlands of hope, and the shore that is hidden,  
Where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonorous invisible tide;  
By the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt pools bitter and sterile,  
By the thundering reef and the low sea-wall and the channel of years,  
Our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard through pleasure and peril,  
Labour and listen and pant not or pause for the peril that nears; _

_And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine holy but mine heavy-laden,  
As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah love! shall we win at the last?_

 _Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Hesperia"_

* * *

 _ **Sutamasina, December 26, 1874**_

"Hannah…!" Rivka rose to greet her, her smile genuine, and that much more striking in its contrast to the darkness of her appearance and demeanor. They embraced for a long, emotional moment. Then Hannah stepped back; she reminded herself that this young girl was no more of a handful than Leah or Rachael ever were; and she got right down to business. She put her hands on her hips and looked at Rivka severely.

"What?" Rivka said, a little defensively. "What is it?"

Hannah just shook her head. "You know very well **_what_** , child, but you gonna make me say it. That's OK. That's why I'm here. Put down that pen. You and I need to take a walk."

They walked a long way, on a rising path nearly to the point where Jarrod had stood and envisioned buying the camp, and all its prisoners, right out from under the nose of Colonel Morgan. They turned and looked west, over the fallow fields finding new life under the care and tending of a Miwok village. The two women sat down, shoulder to shoulder, a shared blanket draped over their backs for warmth.

Hannah studied the side of Rivka's face, feeling more certain every moment of the intuition she had felt. She put a warm arm around Rivka's waist and hugged her, and was glad to feel her relax slightly against her side. It was important, Hannah thought, that Rivka feel loved - clearly and absolutely loved - before anything else was said.

They were silent for a few minutes more, while Hannah gently rubbed Rivka's back. Rivka drew her knees up before her and wrapped her arms around them, rocking slightly as she tried unsuccessfully to control what she was feeling. She took a ragged breath in, and let it out with a quiet sob as she hid her face in her arms. Her tears fell to the ground. The earth accepted them, took them in silently, just as they were. She remembered sitting with Heath, just like this, in the barn, the last time they lay together. She ached for him, she _ached_ for him, and her tears flowed warm on her face.

"Rivka, child."

Hannah saw her nod, heard a faint sound of assent.

"Tell me. How many weeks has it been?"

Rivka seemed to stiffen and hold her breath for a long moment. Exhaling finally, she sat up, opened her eyes, and straightened her shoulders. Sitting cross-legged now, she dropped her hands to her lap, gazing at them solemnly. "Six weeks."

Hannah nodded. "Have you been very sick?"

"Just the past week."

"You know as well as anyone what can be done about the sickness, child, but you know you're not taking proper care of yourself."

"No. No, I haven't been -"

"Is this why you don't want your Mama or your family to come to you, child?"

At that question, Rivka broke down and sobbed. Hannah held her and murmured to her until the emotion eased. After a while, Rivka quieted; she sat up, cross-legged again, and focused on her hands in her lap until she could regulate her breathing.

There was a great deal here that Hannah had understood without being told. She was completely surprised, however, by what Rivka said next.

"I think I understand Leah, now, maybe. I understand something."

"Leah?"

"I always judged her, I'll admit it, or I pitied her because she didn't have the education or the understanding to control her own life. Or I thought maybe she didn't think she had the **_right_** to choose, to decide _when_ and _how_ to become a mother. Whichever it was, even though she loved Tom Barkley, I always thought her pregnancy was, in some way, a result of her powerlessness. He was responsible too, that's a whole other issue, but Leah, I thought, made herself powerless. She got pregnant, and then as a mother she made the best of it, as the stubbornly loving, good-hearted soul she was.

"I wonder now, though. I wonder - she loved him so much, and she knew he would be gone. She knew she would lose him. I wonder if it was more of a choice than I've ever given her credit for."

Hands clenched in her lap, Rivka made herself face Hannah, struggling to confess something she had not yet fully admitted to herself. "Hannah, I **_knew_**. I knew what could happen – what would likely happen. Heath trusted me in that respect. He honored me, and he never, ever overstepped. He **_trusted_** me to guide him, Hannah, but I – I thought I was losing him. Every day I was more afraid I would never see him again, would never hold him again. I brought him to bed, and I lied to him, God forgive me. I told him it would be OK.

"Only in the war did I ever see him so lost, so broken up as he was. He was in so much pain. He was coming apart, Hannah, and it terrified him. For him, it was like he was dying. He needed me. He _needed_ me, and I - I needed not to lose him. He was falling away from me, down into a bottomless black pit, and I grabbed for him. I couldn't help it. It's not rational. I reached to hold on to whatever I could before he was gone. **_I_** let this happen. Will he be able to forgive me?"

"Rivka," Hannah said firmly, one hand gently on either side of Rivka's distraught, tear-streaked face, "Heath will move heaven and earth to be at your side, you know this. You are his home. I've known **_that_** , I think, since I saw the look in his sixteen-year-old eyes, first time he ever told us about you.

"I'm willing to bet that he will be most upset that you are running yourself into the ground, and not feeding the teeny one you carry either. Child, right now you need some ginger tea, you need a decent meal, and you need to get some rest. _Then_ maybe we can think about more complicated things."


	97. Chapter 96 - How Say Ye

_In the LORD put I my trust:_

 _How say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain?_

 _For, lo, the wicked bend the bow;_

 _They make ready their arrow upon the string,_

 _That they may shoot in darkness at the upright in heart._  
 _If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?_

 _Psalm 11:1-3_

* * *

 _ **Sonora, California, December 30, 1874**_

Washington Street was empty and quiet when the four riders came slowly into town. Oil lanterns created puddles of light here and there, which spilled over the raised and covered sidewalks and weakly illuminated the packed dirt of the main road. The exception, for light, sound, and activity, was the City Hotel. That establishment glowed within and without, lit by an abundance of gas lamps, and even at that late hour the rooms, the bar, and the restaurant appeared nearly at capacity.

The riders passed the busy, humming hotel and proceeded a ways further up the street, coming to halt in front of a solid, well-kept building with a sign identifying it as the Sonora, California office of the U.S. Marshal Service and the duty station of Raul Montana, Deputy U.S. Marshal.

In the quiet, away from the hotel, all four men just sat their horses for a moment, palpably reluctant to move on to what came next. Roberts broke the silence first.

"Well, here we are, Barkley, home sweet home. Least we got room and board for you. Don't know where Nick's gonna stay. That hotel's still all full up with lawyers, and newspaper people, and other Sacramento types."

Nick watched Heath shift uncomfortably in the saddle as he regarded the thick-walled, barred windows of the jail attached to the U.S. Marshal's office. He saw him run a shaky right hand over his mouth and chin, wiping the damp palm on the front of his borrowed shirt. Nick nudged Coco up alongside Charger so they stood stirrup-to-stirrup. Heath glanced at him gratefully, and tried to joke.

"Ain't been indoors for a month. Feelin' a mite skittish."

"Hmph. _Skittish_ ," Nick grunted, scowling. It was looking to him like there was no end in sight to the gauntlet through which these elected criminals intended to drag his brother. Nick felt his patience was just about gone, and the opportunities for action were frustratingly few.

But there were a **_few_**.

"Roberts."

"Yeah."

"Put me up with Heath. I'll give him some company, and you'll give me a place to sleep outta the weather."

"Now, Nick, I'm a sworn law enforcement officer. I can't go incarcerating a law-abiding citizen without a warrant or some valid concern for public safety."

"I see your point." Nick reached into Heath's saddlebag and pulled out the near-empty flask of whiskey. He toasted Heath, who was watching him with a grin; he upended it over his mouth to swallow the last few drops, and tossed it out of sight over his shoulder. "How about public drunkenness and littering?"

"Works for me," Roberts said. "Nick, you're under arrest. Jed, bring 'em in."

They were in the marshal's office, laying out their belongings on the big worktable, when Montana strode in via the back door. His presence took command of the room before he had even crossed the floor. Nick and Heath both straightened up, Nick with a somewhat more belligerent demeanor.

"Ah, stand down, Nick, you look just like your mother when you're mad," Montana barked. "I'm not your enemy here. No need to get those hackles up." Moving on, he nodded to Roberts, who saluted him back, and then he turned on Jed, who was watching him carefully.

"Deputy." That was all he said for a long moment. The black eyes were intense and unreadable. Heath found himself remembering a few stories John shared with him about his early days as Montana's deputy, and thought he could see an echo of John's potent and sometimes disturbing use of silence.

"Sir." Jed was on alert for sure, and wary, but even so, there was an ease about him. He was in trouble, but he seemed to - _belong_.

"You left on an assignment, Deputy, over three weeks ago. An assignment that was **_not_** approved by me; an assignment that came, in fact, from the wanted man's **_attorney_**. Do you see the problem there, Deputy?""

"Yes, sir -"

"Further, it took you two weeks to send me any useful information, or an update as to your location."

"Yes, sir. I apologize, sir. Barkley here was more difficult to track than I expected. In fact," he admitted, glancing at Heath, "I didn't catch him, sir. _He_ stopped and set up a parlay."

"Don't change the subject, Deputy. We'll get to Barkley in a minute." He stepped up close to Jed, who looked surprised that his deft and self-deprecating deflection was unsuccessful. The younger man was taller, and he met Montana's scrutiny with a look of respect and no small amount of apology for causing him worry. Montana gripped the back of Jed's neck and shook it slightly, his mouth a tight line. He held the eye contact until some understanding seemed to pass between the two men. Montana nodded then, and some of the tension left his weathered face. He stepped back, dropping his hand to his side. He looked Jed up and down once more, narrowly. His concern and affection was evident, and Heath was certain the deputy was suppressing a sigh of relief.

"We'll talk later, young man." Montana turned to Nick next. "I was going to tell you your brother is en route, however it appears now it's your _attorney_ who is on his way from Stockton." He shook his head in exasperation with a glance at Roberts. " _You_ arrested him, _you_ can get upstairs and scrounge up some more bedding for the extra guests."

"Guests, Marshal?"

"Where the hell you think the lawyer's gonna stay, Roberts? Go on."

"Yessir."

Heath watched him go, suddenly reminded of the first time he saw Jim Roberts. That was in Nevada, of course. John Smith had been giving the orders that day, and Jim had jumped to his job with that same _yessir. John had been giving the orders, and I – I was –_

"Mr. Barkley."

 _You, Mr. Barkley, are under arrest. Please place your hands behind you –_

"Heath ** _."_**

Nick's hand on his shoulder startled him, not too badly, but it was enough to make his heart race and wake up a hundred sleeping aches and pains and set them barking for his attention. Then, for one heart-stopping second, he thought he _did_ hear dogs.

 _Let it come, and let it go._ The fear crested, and surged in, bearing sadness and anger like the foam and detritus of an ocean breaker.

 _Me'weh. You are holding your breath._

He exhaled, and it receded; Heath imagined it hissing and fading back into the vast, breathing ocean. _Let it go._ Teleli had never seen the ocean. They had talked about it, one night. Heath tried to describe it, inadequately, he thought, but Teleli had listened deeply. _Let it come, and let it go._

Heath shook his head as if to clear it, grateful for Nick's hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Nick – Marshal – I was just –"

"No worries, Heath," Montana said gruffly. He had been watching closely, and suspected he knew the general gist of the tension he could see in Heath's face. "Glad you're all back safe. And, by the way, the office in Mariposa wired to say they retrieved your two hobbled bounty hunters and their horses. Put 'em all on a train back to Bakersfield and good riddance to 'em". He caught the look that passed between Jed and Heath. "Seems you boys were able to team up pretty good."

Thoughtful, his eyes remained on the two for an uncomfortably long moment, seeming to be lost in his own memories, and studying Nick as well, who still stood with his hand on Heath's shoulder. Big and broad-shouldered as Nick was, Raul could see a great deal of Victoria in him, and he imagined that was part of what he found so likeable about the young man.

Raul had not been in _love_ with Victoria, exactly, back in those days when she would frequently travel through with Tom. He had asked himself about it, repeatedly, because he was a widower, and she was such a beautiful woman. It was not romantic, the feeling he had sought with her; it was friendship and laughter. He enjoyed her bravery of mind and heart; he enjoyed her sense of humor. They had been friends at a time in his life when such moments of laughter were a lifeline to keep him from drowning in the grief of his wife's death.

 _This **other** son, now…_Montana was meeting him now for the first time, this bastard son of Tom's, this deeply loved son of Victoria's heart. He had learned some of the story, over these past weeks. The fact that Victoria had transformed such a betrayal – _Tom's betrayal,_ he thought, _let's be specific -_ into a deep, loving bond was a testament, Montana imagined, to the imagination, bravery and compassion of both Victoria _and_ Heath. Such a phenomenon could not survive the strain, if it were only one-sided.

 _And he **is** Tom's, no doubt there, _he thought, shaking his head in amazement as he studied the embattled, weather-beaten young man who stood before him, dressed in ragged deerskin leggings and a borrowed shirt. _Hell, I can see that, even in the state he's in now. I imagine Vic saw it right away._ Montana's eyes flicked back to Jed again, aware that a nagging speculation of almost two decades ago - long since dismissed - was now coming back to annoy and distract him. He mentally swatted it away. _This isn't the time, or the place. We've got plenty more important things to deal with first._

"Jed."

"Sir."

"See to the horses, would you?"

"Yessir."

"And then get yourself over to knock on Millie's door, see if she'll open up shop so you can buy this cowboy some civilized clothes. You two are just about the same size, looks to me. Nick, you got some cash you can give him?"

"Sure do, Marshal, and it's all on your table there."

Montana watched Jed leave, then stood looking thoughtfully down at the belongings on the worktable. There were the usual items a rider on the trail would carry, though of better-than-average quality – those items were Nick's. Heath had virtually nothing, and what he did have – other than his nicked and battered boot knife – was odd. _Exotic, one might say,_ _though "primitive" and "savage" also comes to mind,_ the marshal thought: A bow, some arrows, a collection of arrowheads and other blades fashioned from obsidian; a flint and a whetstone; needles of bone and thread of sinew; a beaded medicine bag; and a small, sturdy flat box about the size of a wallet, of tightly woven hemp and leather. This last was ingeniously and artistically made. Montana recognized it as a Miwok design. He picked it up, and noticed Heath was now watching him anxiously. He slid aside the latch; opening it, he saw the box was full of some sort of dried plant. Mushrooms, looked like, but dried and shriveled into curled, unlovely shapes. He held up the box and looked questioning at Heath.

"What's this?'

"Medicines."

Montana closed the box. "Looks Miwok."

"It is."

It bothered Montana, how Heath was following that box with his eyes. "What's it for?"

Heath met his eyes then and realized he needed to say more if he wanted to get Montana to move on to something else. "They're medicinal – they're hard to find, only certain areas of the mountains. Don't know when I'd be able to get more, so I try to keep those carefully."

"Medicinal? For what?"

"I – I'd rather not say, Marshal – I can say they're not poisonous or meant to harm anyone – I just don't want -"

Montana sighed and put the box down on the table. He had known Papati, and had thought of him as a friend, all those many years ago. He was aware of Teleli's training. Montana was certain the box, and the contents, had been his. The whole situation made him sick to his stomach. He ran a hand through his white hair. "Heath –"

Heath interrupted him, anger edging his voice. "Montana, you and I both know that men like Morgan and Peale and the Governor want to hang Teleli as a scapegoat to justify their own crimes." He had moved forward, bracing his hands on the tabletop and looking Montana in the eye. There was silence for a moment, then Heath deliberately stepped back and softened his tone.

"Marshal, let me save you some time. Yes, that box belonged to Teleli. He saved my life with that medicine. He thought I would probably need it again, and worried I might not be where I could gather it myself. So he put some in that box and gave it to me.

"I've lost count of the number of times I owe my life to that man, Marshal. Where I was, when he helped me this last time, was worse than death, worse than anything I could have imagined. I can't think of anything you or the Attorney General could threaten that would make me betray him. So before you ask, here's my answer: No. I won't tell you where to look for him, dead or alive."

"I appreciate a man who gets to the point," came a new voice. Phil Archer leaned in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

Montana wondered, as he had several times before, how it was that the more complex and contentious and high-stakes this wide-ranging case became, the more cheerful and relaxed Archer seemed. Right then, with worry twisting in his gut for Teleli, and for this stubborn wild man in his office, Archer's cheery presence annoyed him greatly. "What is it, Phil?" he growled.

"Just delivering news. Judge approved Jarrod's request for a work release for Mr. Barkley here. Heath, that is. Don't know about you, Nick. He might let you stew in jail for a bit." He chuckled at his own joke.

"A work release?"

"Yep. Tomorrow. Once Doc Robinson checks you over, of course, and the judge has a look at you, and your excellent attorney."

"Work release _where_? Doing what?"

"I don't know how he pulled that off, honestly. You seem like the walking definition of a flight risk, if you ask me."

"Phil –"

"Work release to the California Board of Health, I hear. Going to put you to work on that project the lady doctor's got going on down there with the Indians." He straightened up with a grin and turned to go. " _Damn_ , you've got a good lawyer, kid."


	98. Chapter 97 - Midnight

_From the Desert I come to thee  
On a stallion shod with fire;  
And the winds are left behind  
In the speed of my desire.  
Under thy window I stand,  
And the midnight hears my cry:  
I love thee, I love but thee,  
With a love that shall not die._

 _Bayard Taylor (1825-1878), "Bedouin Song"_

* * *

 _ **Sonora, California, Midnight, December 30, 1874**_

 _Tomorrow. That lady doctor._

Nick saw confusion, disbelief, joy, apprehension, and then plain old fear follow each other in rapid succession in his brother's expression. Heath looked down at himself and then up at Nick, eyes wide.

"Heath, what is it?" He seemed on the verge of panic, and Nick grabbed his shoulders, his own anxiety rising at the look on Heath's face. "What's wrong?"

Nick heard Montana laughing behind him, and now he felt utterly confused. He turned to face the marshal. "What in blazes is so funny?" he demanded.

"Heath, no worries, son. I've got a nice big sink and plenty of soap and cold water in the pump house out back. Jed'll be back soon with some clothes, and I bet your brother will even lend you his razor. You won't have to go meet the doctor looking like a wild man."

Nick rolled his eyes and groaned in relief and exasperation. Heath, blushing now and embarrassed, forced himself nonetheless to look Montana in the eye to express his thanks.

"I'm grateful to you, Marshal." Teleli and Jed had shared with him their thoughts about Montana. He was an honorable man, that seemed very clear, and his duty now must be weighing heavily on him. "For everything. I know you're in a tough position. I wish I could make it easier on you somehow."

Montana looked at him in surprise. He was beginning to see why John and the Barkley family felt about him as they did – _and that lady doctor, too,_ he added to himself.

"Do you have any news about John?" Heath asked. "Nick said he was up and around a few days ago when he left the ranch." The memory of Morgan taking John down with that sword still made Heath queasy with worry and guilt. For a moment, his hands felt numb and frozen as if they were still wrapped around that Whitworth rifle. Impatiently, he pushed the feeling away and focused on Montana.

"He's healing up fine, I think. He's a tough old hoss – not as old as _me_ , of course. Not up to riding yet, but he seemed to be traveling OK a few days ago."

"Traveling? You saw him?"

"Yep. He was here, oh, three days ago now – the day after you came through, Nick. He had a – a _meeting_ \- with my former prisoner, Mr. Martin Peale. I say former, because right after their conversation, John took him out of here and was on his way to Sacramento."

"He took _Peale_? Why?"

"Can't say I know for sure. He's still my boss, so it was his call. He didn't say much, but I'll tell you, John was a man on a mission that day. Never seen him quite so intense, except maybe that day he rode out after Morgan." He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "I wasn't privy to their conversation, but for sure I've _never_ seen Peale look quite so cowed as he did after John was done talking to him. Didn't hear a peep out of him on his way out the door. I'd love to know what John said to 'im." He sobered. "I know John's going to take on the Governor. I hope he's got what he needs. It's about time you and Teleli got to come home."

A little later on, Nick was leaning against the stone wall of the pump house, looking up at the night sky while Heath finished cleaning up and getting dressed. He listened with half an ear in case Heath needed any help managing with that lame left arm. Jed had come through with some clothes, a coat, a hat, and even a pair of boots. He brought them to the pump house, and then went back to the office to talk with Montana. Nick grinned in sympathy. He suspected that boy was going to get a serious talking-to from the marshal.

Light spilled out from the building as a side door opened and the two men emerged. Montana had his hand on Jed's shoulder. Jed looked contrite, but the tension between them had dissipated.

 _Seems they've talked it out,_ Nick thought, _that's good._ He didn't intend to eavesdrop, but he found himself studying Jed as he untied his mare and got ready to ride away.

"I'm just gonna ride out and check on the folks in the cabin -" Jed was saying, "- make sure they don't need anything, then I'll come back here and wait up for Jarrod. That way you can go turn in once Nick and Heath are settled."

Raul nodded his agreement. "One other thing. Got word yesterday that my sister wants to come for a visit right after the New Year." He could not help but grin at the immediate, joyful anticipation this news elicited from the young deputy. "And yes, of course, Rafaela is coming too."

Jed now had a brilliant smile on his face. He gave Montana a quick, celebratory hug, settled his Stetson on his head, then took up his mare's reins and vaulted effortlessly up into the saddle. Still grinning, he touched the brim of his hat to Raul; the horse pivoted, responding to some unseen direction from her rider, as if she had become an extension of his body; and they vanished into the dark.

Montana turned and went inside, extinguishing the light that had filled the alley beside the building. Nick just stood, lost in the image of Jed jumping up on that mare.

 _Heath. Heath moves like that – or he used to, anyway. Rides like he's part of the horse. Like Father – no, better than Father, actually._ Nick felt that same anger that kept flaring up in him each time he encountered some new reminder of Heath's injuries. _And that smile_ –

It had been a long time since Nick had seen Heath smile like that. There were hints of it now – flashes of his old humor coming back - and it eased Nick's heart to see it. Heath, though, had always been somewhat reserved. That big smile, that hug, that unfettered look of joy – _that_ was Tom Barkley. Nick swallowed, staring off into the dark and thinking about that strangely blond, dark-skinned deputy.

He startled when he felt Heath's hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, big brother, didn't mean to spook you." The slight grin on his face suggested he wasn't sorry at all.

Nick just stared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, and looked Heath up and down. "Well, you cleaned up pretty good, boy. Feel better?"

"Boy howdy, do I ever. Jed did good. These boots fit perfectly." He straightened his shoulders, mentally preparing himself to go back inside the jailhouse. He wondered, though, at the preoccupied expression on Nick's face. "You having second thoughts about your choice of lodging for the night, Nick?"

"What? No, no – it's not that -" He looked down at the new boots and decided to put aside what he was thinking, for now. He gave Heath a smile and a smack on the shoulder. "Hope Jarrod gets here soon. He's gonna love the sleeping arrangements. Let's go see if Montana can feed us anything."


	99. Chapter 98 - Brothers

_And yet, my brothers, well I know  
_ _The tethered feet, the pinioned wings,  
_ _The spirit bowed beneath the blow,  
_ _The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;_

 _The staggering force of brutish might,  
_ _That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed;  
_ _The long, vain waiting through the night  
_ _To hear some voice for justice raised._

 _Full well I know the hour when hope  
_ _Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere  
_ _Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope  
_ _With hands uplifted in despair._

 _Courage! Look out, beyond, and see  
_ _The far horizon's beckoning span!  
_ _Faith in your God-known destiny!  
_ _We are a part of some great plan._

 _James Weldon Johnson, "Fifty Years"_

* * *

 ** _Sonora, California, 2 AM, December 31, 1874_**

Jarrod could still muster enough energy to feel grateful for the mild weather, and for his steady, strong horse, as he and Jingo made their way slowly into the center of town. He tried to focus on that gratitude; it helped him keep his chin up and keep moving forward.

 _I'll take all the help I can get, right now._ The past weeks he had felt as if he were slogging chest-deep and half-blind through a murky swamp. This state of mind stood in stark contrast to the clarity he had felt when he took action to protect the Miwok village, or when he rode to Sutamasina to bring the family safely home. He knew what needed to be done, then.

 _Sutamasina. That is when it changed._

Since that day, it seemed to him, he had been struggling to see his way forward. He had not been able to deflect the Governor from his vindictive agenda. Logic insisted Jarrod had more than enough leverage, but logic apparently could not prevail in Sacramento. He had finally yielded to John's aggressive and possibly risky plan to put an end to the vendetta. He had watched John, barely out of his sickbed, drive off on his mission to Sacramento; he had watched Nick and Hannah leave for Sonora. And all through this time of preoccupation – though his mother insisted otherwise - he felt as though he had been no help at all to his family members in their own moments of distress.

He had serious misgivings about his own judgement in sending Jed to find Heath. He had begun to understand, in recent days, that what he had sought was simply to _reach_ Heath, somehow, and keep him out of harm's way. Jarrod's convoluted, lawyerly effort in that regard was looking to him now like the desperate grasping and groping of a man who cannot see what he's reaching for.

That day in the mountains, riding to Sutamasina, he had known where he was needed, and what was needed, to bring everyone safely down out of the mountains. Everyone, that is, but Heath.

 _I lost sight of you, Heath, that day. I lost sight of you, and it's been making me crazy ever since._

There was a moment, on the trail, when Jarrod heard him, could **_feel_** what Heath felt, and knew he would not get to him in time. Knew Heath was gone. Knew that his brother was out of his reach, whatever his fate would be.

 _Useless, wasted, incurable. What difference does it make, Jarrod, free or just dead?_ _Just dead is better than – better than **this**. Better than whatever **I** am. _

He remembered the sound of Heath's voice in his head, as Morgan circled him with that sword. Jarrod still grew cold at the memory of that foreign, dark hopelessness that had flooded through him.

 _Jarrod...?_

The sound of Heath's voice as he waited for – _wished_ for - death.

Well, all his legal maneuvering had not accomplished anything, as far as he could see. Yesterday, though, while brooding over coffee with his mother, sister, and Silas, he received word from Mariposa that Heath was safely in the hands of Nick and two marshals, and they were heading for the lockup in Sonora. Jarrod was saddled up within the hour and riding south.

Far ahead up the main road, now, he could see a few lights still on at the hotel, and some signs of activity. The rest of Sonora was utterly dark and silent; all, that is, but one other establishment on the north side of town. Jarrod arrived to find the Marshal's office well lit, with the front door standing open to let in the mild night air. What surprised him far more, however, was the sound of laughter.

 _Laughter. Nick, and Heath – God, how long has it been since I've heard that?_

He stepped down at the hitching rail, loosened Jingo's cinch, and took a moment to listen to that welcome sound as he untied his saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder.

"OK, that puts me ahead at – let's see – comes to $642,318."

 _That was Nick._ Jarrod grinned. _They must be playing cribbage._

"You ready to quit?"

"One more game."

 _That was Heath. He never can beat Nick at that game, and he never can quit trying. He'll just dig himself deeper and deeper in, double or -_

"Double or nothin'."

 _That was – Jed?_

Jarrod crossed Montana's office to the anteroom of the lockup, where he took in a sight that was at once familiar, deeply welcome, and unsettling. Four men sat around a table outside an open cell door. Nick was grinning around his cigar as he prepared to start a new game. Jim Roberts was also smoking; he was observing with amusement, as he had no clue how to play. Heath sat in a chair leaning up against the bars of the cell, his left arm in a sling, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He was watching Nick affectionately from under the brim of his hat. Jed sat to his left, doubling down on his losses.

It bothered him. Jarrod could acknowledge this. It _bothered_ him, seeing Jed with his brothers. Jed was a free man, relaxed and healthy and joking with Nick.

Heath was grinning tiredly at them both. He was worn, underfed, and as sun-dark as Jed. _Relaxed? Maybe. Healthy? Probably not. Free? No. Definitely not._ Jarrod frowned as that jealousy and sadness came welling up in him again, confusing and painful in light of the friendship and respect he felt for the young deputy.

These thoughts faded to the back of Jarrod's mind, however, as he stood in the doorway and regarded his brother Heath: a man recently returned from one of the Seven Circles of Hell, if the glimpse Jarrod had been granted was even the slightest indication of what Heath had experienced. Cut off these several weeks from any useful intuition, Jarrod had ridden here truly not knowing what to expect. What damage had been done? What wreckage would he find?

Jarrod saw, instead, a stillness about Heath; he sensed a hint of that ease that was so characteristic of his brother, and so painfully absent these past months. It was a very, _very_ welcome sight.

 _So why do I feel so sad?_

Heath looked up and saw him then, and that question went unanswered. "Jarrod," he exclaimed with a smile of genuine joy. He got to his feet, not quickly, and not without evident difficulty and pain, but his eyes never left Jarrod as he hurried to greet him.

Jarrod crossed the room to meet him more than halfway, and cried unashamedly as they embraced. _There is so much that has happened, so much that has passed between us, so much to talk about –_

Jed and Roberts, in unspoken agreement, quietly stepped into the office to give the brothers some time and privacy, fully aware they were in violation of several chapters of law enforcement regulations.

"Heath." After a few minutes, Jarrod pulled back to look at him, hardly knowing where to start.

"I heard you, Jarrod." Heath said it quietly, almost as a question. "I thought I did -?"

"Thought I heard you too. Then I lost track of you. I didn't like that."

"Kinda lost track 'a myself for a while."

Jarrod considered again the return of that deep-water stillness he could see in Heath; it gave him hope and joy, yes, but he sensed, too, that something had changed in his brother. He studied his grave, weathered face and searched for some way to say what he had felt, up there on the mountain. _That darkness_. But Heath spoke first.

"I know you tried, Jarrod. I could feel it. I wish I had the words to tell you what that meant - what that means - to me." He broke off and looked away, the remorse and shame weighing heavily on him as he remembered. "I felt you were with me. But I – I couldn't –" He swallowed, tried again. "It got so much worse, Jarrod. So much worse, I can't even explain. I couldn't hold on to you. I couldn't hold on to anything."

Jarrod found he couldn't imagine what that was like; nor, tonight, did he truly want to try. "You held on to something. You made it back, Heath."

"Teleli – he saved my life. Saved my sanity. Or at least gave me a fighting chance at it."

"You won't trade him for your freedom, will you."

"You know I won't."

"Yes. I know." He frowned. "That leaves us in a bad situation. The State has a wide range of powers it can use – or abuse – to pressure an uncooperative witness, Heath – and that's before they start adding in criminal charges. At least the local judge is sympathetic, and Phil, of course. That was the only reason I could get you out of lockup, temporarily, at least. I got nowhere with the Governor. He is going down, eventually, with the amount of evidence Phil has collected to implicate him, but he's determined to have his blood sacrifice on the way. It's up to John now. He thinks he can find which way to push. I pray he's right. I am sorry, Heath. I should've -"

"Oh, will you two stop **_apologizing_** to each other already." Nick could no longer stay silent.

Heath actually laughed, and Jarrod felt some of his malaise begin to dissipate.

A somber but companionable silence gradually settled over them as they sat down around the small card table. Jarrod pulled out a bottle of Scotch he had thrown in his saddlebag at the last minute. Nick rustled up three glasses, and Heath poured them each a drink, his gaze thoughtfully intent on the amber-gold fluid. They clinked their glasses, and looked at each other, each remembering the last time they were all three together - each wondering, in their own way, how to start talking about the fourth man in the room: Tom Barkley. Jarrod felt himself awash in memories.

 _I hung back in the roundhouse to try to talk to the boy, to ask him where he was from... he'd already learned the hard way not to draw attention to his family – had learned it was safest to stay hidden. We failed so terribly..._

Yet, as shocking and painful as _that_ revelation had been for all of them, there had been more to come, and worse.

It was bad enough, that Morgan had deliberately deceived a trusting twelve-year-old stable boy and sent him off to war. Bad enough, that Morgan found that boy among the survivors of Bentell's death camp and crushed him under a dishonorable discharge, while with the other hand he pardoned Bentell, and welcomed him as a business partner. All of it, bad enough – but Morgan was dead now by that stable boy's hand; he was dead by the lethal skills Heath had been forced to learn, and with Morgan's own rifle, to boot. That was gruesomely fitting, they all agreed – even Audra and Silas thought so.

But there was more. John and Mother had shared with them in painful detail Morgan's vicious physical and mental attack on Heath, how he had so gleefully used their father's cowardice (Jarrod could come up with no other term) to gut their brother and torment their family.

 _Not once, but **twice**. How does it feel to know that twice **,** your father recognized you, and turned his back? Walked away – from a **child** \- as the wolves were closing in? _

They had all lost some sleep trying to come to terms with **_that_**. In this, Jarrod's heart ached especially for the questions and grief he could see in his mother's eyes when they spoke of it.

He glanced at Nick, who threw back his drink and then watched gravely as Heath refilled his glass. He had the look of a man at a funeral.

Jarrod, don't blame yourself, please. _That's what Heath said. It was one of the last things I heard him say, before he left. He said,_ I don't want you to suffer on account of me, or 'cause of your father's weaknesses.

 _His first instinct was to try to ease **my** mind. Just as it was Hannah's, when she came to speak to me, the first night back at the ranch. _

How strange it had been to see Hannah again, with this deep river of shared history now flowing between them. She admitted the story she could tell him was incomplete. There was much more she would not tell until she had spoken of it with Heath. She needed to see him, take his measure, hear what he remembered and felt. It was his story to share with his family, or not, as he chose.

What she could say was this: Heath was injured fleeing from men who threatened their family. That was how he ended up in the Miwok village. After Hannah brought him home, the family was again threatened, the details of which she would not tell. In the aftermath, however, Tom Barkley appeared, concerned for their welfare. He spoke with no one but Hannah. He wanted to assist in some way, and he did them a great service, before he left. This, too, Hannah would not describe in detail, but she was clear that he helped and protected their family in some very important way.

 _Didn't know who he was at the time, an' never saw him again. Didn't realize who he was until I saw that belt buckle up there on the shelf. As he left, he said to me,_ I'm so sorry about the boy. _He looked so sad, and it did occur to me at the time that he thought Heath was dead. But he'd gone by then, and no reason for me to go tell him otherwise._

She hoped this would ease the family's mind.

 _Well, yes and no, Hannah,_ Jarrod often found himself thinking. _Yes and no. I suppose it is good to know that Father wasn't completely cold-hearted. But whatever happened at that cabin afterward was bad, **really** bad, and I can't help but feel it's yet one more catastrophe in Heath's life from which we could have – should have - protected him. _

_Maybe Father thought Heath was dead. Would that explain Placerville? Would it excuse his deliberate ignorance, his failure to seek the truth? Tell me, Counselor, was that an adequate defense?_

 _No. No it was not._ Jarrod groaned and turned his face up to the ceiling, rubbing his eyes. He had to leave it to Hannah to tell that part of the story. "God, Heath, I don't even know where to start."

"I think I do," Heath said softly, looking down at his whiskey. "I've said it before – truly I don't want any of you to suffer on my account, because of Tom Barkley. I mean that. He has nothin' to do with _this_ , with **_us_**." He gestured with his glass to his brothers. " ** _You_** mean everything to me. He doesn't. That was his choice. _His_ loss, you understand me?"

Nick had raised his head and was listening intently. "I won't lie," Heath went on, looking at Nick now. "Some of what I've learned about him hurt more than I ever expected it would." He took a deep swallow of his drink and shook his head, wincing. "Boy howdy. Did it _ever_. It's not something to admire about the man. He **_was_** imperfect, as Mother has said."

"Heath," Jarrod started to interrupt, though he still had no idea what he would say.

"Let me finish. Tom's choice wasn't so black and white as it seems. Morgan used part of the truth to attack me, and John and Mother. **_Part_** of the truth. He told me the rest, when we were both pretty sure I wouldn't live to tell you about it."

Heath had refilled his glass, but his hand was shaking some, so he set it back down. He had learned early and hard that when he started feeling like this, alcohol – tempting as it always was - made everything worse.

It was hard, right then, remembering what Morgan had told him, because he was also feeling Morgan's weight pressed against his back, his gloved hand digging into his throat; he was feeling Morgan's blade sliding over his skin; he was hearing his avid cruelty breathing in his ear.

 _It isn't possible to domesticate a rabid creature like you, Thomson, even if one had the incredibly poor judgement to try in the first place._

Heath stared at his hand where it gripped the edge of the table. He ordered himself not to flinch away from the memory-demons that were clawing his skin and squeezing his throat. He told himself to breathe.

 _Let it go._

"Heath?" That was Nick.

"Yeah. Just gimme a second." Breathing. "Just remembering a little too well, maybe." He looked up and met their worried eyes. Swallowed, and cleared his throat. _Try again. They need to hear it, and you need to be able to talk about it._

"Tom Barkley did turn tail and run, when he recognized me in Placerville. He wanted no skeletons falling out of his closet, so he convinced himself I was too old to be who he was thinkin' I was, and he ran. That much was true.

"What Morgan didn't say was that Tom came back looking for me the next day. _Remorse and hope and yearning_ were the words he used. He said to me, _Tom Barkley was stubborn, and foolish, and once that idea took hold - if he knew or believed you were his son - it was clear to me he would risk his own ruin if that's what he had to do to make it right with you."_

Heath looked down at the table again, because there was a sadness in him, deep as the ocean, for that particular moment of his brief, messy life.

 _Placerville_. Heath had loved riding the mail. Working, out in the world beyond Strawberry, he found he could imagine a whole universe of possible futures. That year shone in his mind as a bright moment of lightness and hope and unscarred youth. A moment before the years ahead were filled to overflowing with death.

Heath could not hide it, that sadness, and he didn't want his brothers to misunderstand or feel burdened by it. He kept his gaze studiously on the amber glow of his whiskey glass.

"I hope it was true, what Morgan believed of Tom. Tom made the mistake, though, of going to Morgan to ask about me, instead of Alex. Maybe he still wanted to keep it quiet; maybe he thought asking Alex was more of a risk to his reputation. But Alex would've told him the truth.

"Morgan lied to him, told him I was sixteen or some such thing, and threw him off the trail. _I had to get rid of you,_ he said."

Heath took a careful breath and spoke to the tabletop. "It's kinda ironic, I guess. Tom came back looking for me, and that's why Morgan sent -" He swallowed. "- sent me off to Saint Louis. And that's why he decided to throw me outta the army three years later with a big black X on my back. He figured that'd knock me down far enough I wouldn't ever be back to compromise the value of the Barkley name." He fell silent. With some effort, he pulled himself out of that dismal train of thought enough to be able to look up again. "Morgan did that. Not Tom Barkley, you understand?" They nodded, and he was glad to see some solace in their faces.

"But here's the other thing Morgan told me. _Stubborn and foolish._ He kept saying I was like him, like the Barkleys, _stubborn and foolish_. He said _the time came some years later when we had to crush him too. Just like you – just like your Marshal Smith, for that matter – Tom had a habit of getting in the way, and he decided to rescue his lowly neighbors from the inevitabilities of the railroad."_

"What?" Nick sat up straight, on full alert. " ** _We_** had to crush him? Who's **_we_**?"

Jarrod had been, on one level, admiring Heath's memory for detail and his ability to communicate what he remembered. He had no doubt Heath was recounting Morgan's words accurately, as such recall, in Jarrod's personal experience, could become absolutely precise under conditions of stress. Not for the first time, as he watched Heath struggle through the telling of this tale, Jarrod considered that for him such mnemonic ability might not always feel like a blessing.

On another level, Jarrod was already processing the plausibility and implications of Morgan's involvement in their father's assassination; he was mentally composing a message to send over to Phil Archer, who was probably still up at this hour, working in his shirtsleeves at the hotel.

On a purely emotional level, though, Jarrod was looking at Heath with his weary heart full of gratitude and love. He was so grateful for his safe return, for his presence, and for what he was trying to do to ease his brothers' unhappiness.

He lifted his glass with a smile. "A toast."

Heath picked up his drink with a half of a grin and nudged Nick, who was still smoldering at this latest example of Morgan's atrocities. "Settle down, big brother. Raise your glass."

After a moment's hesitation, Nick exhaled with a laugh and let it go, for now. He refilled his glass, leaned in, and raised it to his brothers. "What's your toast, Jarrod?"

"I have no clever words. Just want to say how grateful I am to have you back, Heath. Just – grateful."

Heath gazed at them both, his eyes bright and suddenly too unsure of his voice to speak. They touched their glasses together.

"Amen to that," Nick said. "And here's to a happy reunion with your girl, Heath. Feel free to use my razor again, boy."

Heath's smile lit up his face. "Amen to that too, my brothers. Amen to that, and a happy New Year."


	100. Chapter 99 - I Felt Her Heart

_So many cares to vex the day,  
_ _So many fears to haunt the night,  
_ _My heart was all but weaned away  
_ _From every lure of old delight._

 _I felt her heart against my own,  
_ _I breathed the sweetness of her breath,  
_ _Till all the cark of time had flown,  
_ _And I was lord of life and death._

 _L. P. Hill, "Summer Magic", The Book of American Negro Poetry_

* * *

 ** _Strawberry, California, Midnight, June, 1859_**

"Hannah. _Hannah_ , wake up -"

"What, child? What is it? What's wrong?" Hannah was wide awake with her feet on the floor within seconds of hearing Leah's urgent, frightened voice. She stood up as Leah and Rachael pushed aside the curtain that separated her sleeping area from the main room of the cabin. "What's wrong?"

"It's Heath. He's gone."

Not more than an hour later, under the light of a half moon, Hannah was hurrying down the middle of Strawberry's dark, deserted main street. She heard the crazy song of a mockingbird boasting from some unseen perch in the woods. She remembered the weight of Leah and Rachael's worried eyes as they watched her pull on her boots and head out into the night, and she prayed she would find Heath where she had so confidently reassured them he would be.

She was headed for the livery. For a few days now she had been bringing Heath down to visit with old Seth, hoping some time around the kindly old widower's horses might begin to call her boy back to himself. Heath had gone with her silently, without resistance, just as he had done with everything else she had tried for all these weeks since the attack. His sight had recovered, and his leg had healed up, but the silence remained. His blue eyes looked back at her from so, so very far away. He seemed always to be watching, and listening, with the whole of his senses and attention; but for what he watched and listened, Hannah could not say.

During their last visit to Seth's, though, Hannah saw _something_ was different.

* * *

 _It was yesterday morning. For the first time in she didn't know how long, Heath left her side. She looked up in time to see his slim form disappear into the barn. She hurried after and found him in a stall with a mare who looked about due to foal. He stroked her face and ran his hands over her back, then rested his cheek against her side, eyes closed. Hannah imagined Heath could hear the mare's breathing and her slow, steady heartbeat; his small body rose and fell with the movement of the horse's chest. The rough wheat-gold of his hair was bright against the mahogany brown of her flank. He was murmuring to her, and Hannah felt tears swell in her throat, so relieved was she to hear his voice again. She heard Seth come up beside her._

 _"Ah, that's good. That's good." He nodded his approval. "She's due to foal soon. Awful late in the season for it, and she's been nervous as anything past few days. She's been wantin' to hide away. I stabled her way back here to give her some peace, but she could use just a little bit of gentle company. She seems to like his, yes ma'am. She likes his company."_

 _"He seems to like hers," she said softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful hush of the dusty barn. "First time he's spoken a word since – well, since he's been sick."_

 _"I could see right off he ain't been well – looks right sad and peaked. I'm sorry to hear he's been ill, Miss Hannah. He's a good boy. You tell him he can come down here anytime once he's feelin' better."_

* * *

Hurrying now through the darkened town, Hannah passed the Simmons' rooming house, and resisted the urge to spit at the building as she went. _Heath probably didn't come this way,_ she thought. She knew he had a back trail shortcut to get to the smithy and the livery that kept him out of his aunt and uncle's line of sight. She had a rough idea of the route, but she hadn't wanted to chance getting turned around in the woods. _Not tonight._

 _It's past midnight,_ she mused _. Heath had been in bed for hours, we all saw him sleeping. Something roused him. Nightmare, maybe. But he knows the wee hours is when the foals always come. I'm sure that's where he is._

Her worry started to get the best of her, nonetheless, and she broke into a run.

There was a low light way in the back of Seth's barn, and Hannah nearly laughed aloud in relief to see Heath curled up on top of the hay bales right by the mare, dozing under a worn old saddle blanket.

"I covered 'im up," Seth whispered. "She's laboring now. Danged if I can figure how he knew to come tonight. Maybe she told him yesterday when they were sharing secrets."

Hannah nodded, smiling serenely. "Maybe. Maybe."

For the next few hours, Hannah watched over Heath, and Heath watched over the mare. He seemed to know when his touch would calm the horse, and when he needed to leave her alone. She let him bring her fresh bedding and water. The time came for her to lie down and deliver; he retreated to his perch on the hay bales until she had pushed out her foal. The hard work done, she rested on her side and watched with no distress as Heath came close and quickly pulled the birth sac away from the foal's face. He tickled the newborn's nose with some straw to stimulate him to breathe, and was rewarded with a vigorous sneeze. The wet gangly creature began trying to lift his head and roll to his chest. Heath backed off again to his nest in the hay, his face lit with a smile of pure happiness. He fell asleep there under the saddle blanket. Hannah kissed him and tucked him in; she hugged Seth and thanked him, and said she would come back in the daytime with a whole plate of corncakes just for him. Then she hurried home to bring Leah and Rachael some sorely needed good news.

* * *

 _ **Village of Sutamasina, December 31, 1874**_

Montana decided to accompany the three brothers himself as they rode south out of town to the Miwok village. It was another sunny, unseasonably mild day, and he was in sore need of some fresh air, not to mention a break from Phil Archer's apparently unlimited generative capacity for legal doings and paperwork. He also wanted to take a ride around and see how things were coming along in the village, and check on Husu and Hekeke and her little ones, though he knew he would be suspect as someone who was hunting for Teleli. He sternly informed his young deputy that he, Jed, was to "stay put and mind the store," indefinitely, until Montana decided otherwise. "Or at least until that niece of mine comes to town," Montana muttered to himself under his breath as he turned to go. "Then they'll be gone like a pair of mustangs."

About a quarter mile from the village, Montana rode off on a wide survey loop, leaving the three brothers to approach the village on their own. Arriving at the colorful front gate, Heath in particular had to stop and try to take in the transformation that had occurred. "A month ago," he murmured, shaking his head. One month ago, he and Rivka had walked through those gates into a prison, while an officer of the army - one who had tried to strike Rivka - shouted curses at them and predicted their demise. "Worse than a prison," Heath corrected himself. "It was a death camp. Extermination. That was Morgan's intent."

"Yes," Jarrod concurred.

"Look at it now," Nick said, his tone almost reverential.

Heath felt for a moment overwhelmed by the magnitude of what the Miwok had lost, and how much more **_could_** have been lost, had they failed in this battle. _Thank God for John and his marshals, for Jarrod, and -_ "You should be so proud of what you did here, Jarrod. Both of you should be – and the whole family. What you did saved so many lives. But I just keep thinking - this village means so much more than that. There's more to it than just staying alive. _It is neither wealth nor splendor; but tranquility and occupation which give you happiness_. Right? What you did, Jarrod, makes that possible."

"A cowboy who quotes Thomas Jefferson," Jarrod shook his head with a grin. "And I hope you're including yourself in that pride, Heath."

"Not really," Heath said seriously. "I dug a few ditches, and then Morgan decided to use me as a practice target before he took on his real opponent. You, on the other hand, actually helped this village stake out a _home_. No contest."

They had dismounted as this debate proceeded, and tethered their horses near the festive green-and-yellow gate. As they walked toward the barn and the crumbled farmhouse, they took in the widespread organized activity of the place that Hannah had appreciated, their sense of wonder sharpened by their personal memories of the cruelty that had nearly smothered the people of this village out of existence. When they stood within this razor-wrapped prison one month ago, Death - untimely, needless, capricious Death - was already dancing in celebration all around them. Those gloating gargoyles had not been banished completely, but they _had_ been largely beaten back to the boundaries of the Village of Sutamasina.

Nick decided to join the debate. "Now, c'mon, Heath, none of these folks would have lived long enough to do any of this if you hadn't found that well and gotten it working. You hadn't done that, this would've all been over by the next morning."

"Well, maybe, but –"

"Heath, I think you've got much more interesting conversations to have than this one. I believe I see Hannah and Rivka." Jarrod pointed toward the barn.

His heart suddenly pounding in his throat, Heath turned to see the silhouette of the two women - one tall and slim, one petite – emerge from the building and begin walking across the farmyard. He took a breath to call to them.

"Me'weh! Me'weh is back!"

 _Malila?_

Heath turned to see Malila – and then Kono – and coming now behind _them_ , a pack of at least 40 children under the age of nine, all running at him full tilt, their black hair flying, and all joyously hollering _Me'weh, Pele Me'weh_ at the top of their lungs. Bringing up the rear was Husu, his arms held wide, and grinning from ear to ear.

And behind _him_ –

Nick and Jarrod just gaped. They had heard, in passing, about the "squirrel stories", but this - ? What was _this_?

Heath had a glimpse of at least another 20 or so older children galloping in their direction as the news was shouted across the village, along with a good many adults, all yelling, singing and laughing his name. Just a glimpse before –

Before Malila launched herself at him at full speed, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tight.

"Me'weh, Me'weh, Me'weh, I knew you would find your way back! I knew it!"

He was speechless. _Not me. Not **my** name, really, it's Husu's squirrel, Husu's story - that made-up, blind – _But he hugged her back, overcome with an unexpected flood of emotion. "Malila. You helped me. You are something rich and strange and wonderful. You helped me come back."

She leaned in to look at him nose-to-nose. "I _know_ I did, Me'weh. I am brave – and strong." She clambered up onto his shoulders and then looked at him upside-down. " ** _And_** ," she whispered to him, grinning, "I am - Coyote on the Mountain."

"Oh, wait - no, wait – Malila -"

Nick and Jarrod were still trying to understand what was happening, as the wave of chanting, laughing, singing children broke and swirled and danced around them, leaping up and splashing back down. And how was it that Heath looked so alarmed, and yet couldn't seem to stop laughing ?

"Heath -? What is it? She's _what_?"

Malila laughed aloud at Heath's wide-eyed look. Then she threw her arms wide in triumph and she howled at the sky. " _I – am – Coyote – on – the – Mountain_!"


	101. Chapter 100 - Declare Thou unto Me

_Then answered the LORD unto Job out of the whirlwind, and said,_

 _Gird up thy loins now like a man: I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto me._

 _Hast thou an arm like God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like him?_

 _Job, 40:6-7, 9_

* * *

 ** _Previous day, Sonora, California, December 30, 1874_**

"There it is, Sonora town limit," Nick commented, gesturing at the rough plank sign up ahead.

Both marshals breathed a sigh of relief. None of them had stopped looking over their shoulders and scanning the hills around them for poachers, from the moment they had headed home from the Merced.

"Not a moment too soon." Jim rubbed the back of his neck, stiff with tension. "Glad to be back on friendly territory."

"This is the southern boundary of my parent's land," Jed commented. "It's mine, now –" He pointed. "The cabin Moshe and Ilsa and Peter are using is just over that rise."

Nick looked back at Heath. His brother had knotted his reins on Charger's neck, and was reading and re-reading a worn, wrinkled paper he had pulled from his shirt pocket – a paper Nick had seen in Heath's hand several times already on this trek. Heath did not glance up at the exchange.

The letter was smudged and tear-stained; it was a jumble of false starts and crossed-out fragments. Rivka had run after Jed with the letter as he rode out of Sonora, asking him to give it to Heath, if he could. That was over three weeks ago.

Heath carefully folded the paper and tucked it away. It was worn with handling, and stained dark with the sweat and dirt of the rough trail they had been on.

 _5 December 1874_

 _Heath, my love,_

 _Writing in haste as Jed is leaving to find you._

 _I know you are injured, I am so worried, please send word if you can_

 _-There's so much I-_ _-so much that we-_

 _-I can't do this without you-_

 _Where are you going? Do you just need time? You could go to my family, Heath, I would come to you there, I would come to you anywhere, anywhere_

 _-where are you-_ _Please be safe_

 _I just keep working – I don't know what else to do. I don't know what to say. I can't lose you. I am waiting for you here_

 _I love you. Heath, I love you so much. You are my heart, please don't stay away, please come home, come back to me, please_

 _Rivka_

He ached for her. His brow furrowed in pain. He tipped his face up to the evening sky, his lips tight closed against the sound of the wanting and worry that burned in his throat. The setting sun behind the trees threw light and shadow, flickering red in the darkness behind his closed lids. _Rivka, forgive me._ He was not free, not yet. He rode with his brother and these marshals – these good friends – and each second he was fighting his desire to run to her as fast as he could.

The fear and grief of her letter was more painful to him than any lash could ever be. The love she offered him was a promise of home; it was a glimpse of green life and sweet water in the desert. It was grace and forgiveness of which he felt utterly undeserving, and yet without which he could not live. He read her words again and again. Love, remorse, gratitude, hope, joy, fear - he wanted to scream it all up to the mountains. He wanted to grab her hand and run away with her; he wanted to hold her in his arms and love her and keep her always safe. He wanted to build a house – a home - for her. He wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg her to forgive him.

 _I'm no better than my father,_ Heath thought, his eyes on the familiar form of his brother Nick, riding just ahead of him. _In fact, I'm worse than my father. Tom Barkley left my mother, but he at least did her the mercy of telling her **why**. She knew she could expect nothing more from him; she knew he was gone from her for good and back to his real family. **He** didn't ask my mother to be his wife, and then go and fall apart. He didn't disappear into the mountains, and leave her not knowing if he was alive or dead; sane or hopelessly mad; a free man or a convict. _

_No. **I** did that. _

_\- It is not just strength and discipline you need, Me'weh. Strength alone cannot repair what is broken -_

 _I would do anything to -_

 _\- broken in **you** , Me'weh. In **you**. Will you be a man who only **looks** whole?_

Heath winced at that. He bowed his head with a quiet groan. He picked up his reins and raised a hand to rub at the headache that was beginning to pound behind his eyes. A horse called in the distance with unusual urgency.

 _\- You told me of your friend Cho and his broken pot._

 _It is the compassion and respect he brings to his mending that honors what is broken,_

 _makes it beautiful, stronger than it was before._ _You **know** this. _

_It is what you gave to Nox, what you have given to my family and my village._

 _\- Can you not honor yourself, Me'weh? How can you offer less to the woman you love?_

The horse cried out again, closer now. Nick and the two marshals continued on, talking about the weather and their next meal.

Heath looked up, and reined in. **_Nox_** _._ His breath caught.

Nox was calling to him from far across the pasture. She shone like polished obsidian in the setting sun. She reared up, and her cry to him was more than a greeting; it was a salute; and it was a challenge, trumpeted in the voice of her hard-won strength and her scarred, powerful beauty. She honored him, and she was calling him out, demanding of him to stand and listen. He walked out to meet her, and she welcomed him home.

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, December 31, 1874_**

The Miwok children had a bit of a harder time conquering Me'weh this time; even so, it did not take long before he was brought to the ground. His brothers looked on in stunned amusement.

"Husu, help – how do you say _I give up_ in Miwok?" Heath's voice was muffled and laughing as he tried to wrestle with at least fifteen determined Coyotes-on-the-Mountain.

Husu whistled loudly and yelled something in Miwok. It produced an immediate response; the children all raced off toward the barn, several of them pausing briefly to give a surprised Heath a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. He started to brush himself off, gathering his creaky joints and muscles to rise, when he realized Kono and two of his friends had not yet followed the rest.

Rather than hugging him, Kono reached out to shake Heath's hand. He then slid his hand up so they were each gripping the other's right forearm. It was a traditional greeting between adult men, and Heath watched Kono's serious expression carefully. He knew Kono and Malila's father had been dead for almost a year. Kono was the oldest.

" _Oppun towih_ , Me'weh? Welcome home. I – _we_ – missed you."

"I missed you, Kono. Have you been taking good care of your mother and sister?"

The little boy seemed to straighten up even more, as did his friends. He nodded emphatically. "We can help you and Doctor Rivka too," he said.

Heath glanced up at Husu, who was grinning down at them. "Yes, you can," he agreed. "When you're not in school."

Husu squatted down next to them. He said something to the boys in Miwok. They grinned, ran to grab Nick and Jarrod's hands, and began leading them off toward the barn as well.

Heath watched them go. "What'd you say, Husu?"

"Well, _lunch_ was all I had to say to get most of them moving. I told Kono that brother Nick might look like a big black bear, but that he was as strong as a mountain and sweet as honey – _and_ that brother Nick was bragging the little ones would _never_ be able to knock _him_ over like they did to Me'weh."

"You are a troublemaker, aren't you."

He nodded. "I am," he agreed seriously. "I also told the boys to go and take your brothers with them, because you have not seen your woman in many weeks. They understood _that_ immediately." He pointed with his chin, and then reached to help Heath as he struggled stiffly to his feet. Rivka could be seen talking with Hannah, and turning to come down to the gate.

Husu brushed some dust from Heath's jacket and prepared to follow the children up to the tent that served as a common eating area. He paused, studying Heath's face, hope and fear in his eyes in equal measure. Heath met his gaze with resolute empathy.

"I can't tell you anything yet. If only I know, then it's only me they can pressure – or prosecute. I won't give them a bigger target."

"Is he alive, Me'weh? Can you tell me that? Hekeke – and Haja - they have been sick with worry – I would tell no one else."

Heath hesitated, then nodded once, quickly. Husu seemed almost to faint slightly with relief; he flushed, and his eyes were damp. He bypassed Kono's formal greeting and wrapped his arms around Heath in a warm embrace. "Thank you, Me'weh," he whispered. He turned to run up to the eating tent. He waved to Rivka as he passed, who returned the gesture.

Alone now at the gate, Heath felt his breath catch as he looked at her. She was wearing a simple wool dress of dark blue, and her hair lay over one shoulder in a thick braid. She seemed too pale, too thin, and too troubled, even at that distance - though had he seen her prior to Hannah's arrival, he would know that all of these had improved significantly in recent days.

A smile lit her serious face as their eyes met. Aching bones vanished from his awareness. He ran to her as fast as his limping gait would take him. All he felt was his heart pounding in his chest and the feeling of her body against his as he swept her up in his arms.

"Heath, thank God, thank God, thank God," she whispered in his ear.

"I'm so sorry, darlin'. I'm so sorry I left you. I should never have -"

She shushed him. He searched her face, uncertain what it was he was seeing in her expression. There was love – relief – and joy; there was also a steely look of resolution that was quietly terrifying him. His mouth was suddenly dry. "Rivka -?"

She shook her head. "Get Charger. We can ride double." She pointed south, to a pine grove about a half a mile distant. Her grave tone did nothing to ease his apprehension. He nodded. She did squeeze his hands and give him a smile before she let him go. He focused fiercely on that detail to keep himself steady as he went to get his horse.

* * *

 _O WHAT to me the little room  
_ _That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;  
_ _He bade me out into the gloom,  
_ _And my breast lies upon his breast._

 _O what to me my mother's care,  
_ _The house where I was safe and warm;  
_ _The shadowy blossom of my hair  
_ _Will hide us from the bitter storm._

 _O hiding hair and dewy eyes,  
_ _I am no more with life and death,  
_ _My heart upon his warm heart lies,  
_ _My breath is mixed into his breath._

 _W. B. Yeats, "The Heart of the Woman"_

They rode in silence, Rivka in front with one leg wrapped sidesaddle around the pommel. She did not look where they were riding. Once she had pointed out the spot to Heath, she left it to him to get them there; she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the movement of the horse and the beating of his heart; she leaned into the warmth of his body. His arm around her shoulders held her close. He was so gentle, so strong, so careful – she felt precious, she felt _treasured_ , and she wished they could just keep riding, riding away together.

Charger's steady jog drew to a halt. He blew, and shook his mane. Heath let him drop his head to graze, but otherwise he did not move. He kept very still, very still, holding her, waiting.

She sighed, her eyes still closed against his chest, and Heath began to wonder if he might panic just from pure worry and confusion. "Rivka, what is it – please tell me -" he ventured.

She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I wish we could just keep riding." That resolute expression was back, and Heath began to feel a little queasy as she abruptly dismounted and went to sit on a ledge of rock that overlooked Sullivan's Creek.

He followed and sat beside her. She took his hands and just looked at them mournfully.

His ears were roaring with a deafening silence; he awaited her words like a man waiting for the guillotine. He felt unable to take in a deep breath past the tightness in his chest.

 _She is going to leave me. I was a madman; I left her here in the middle of chaos and violence. She can't forgive me – why would she? She is just trying to find a way to tell me. That must be why she looks so –_

"Heath, I don't know how to say this to make it easier."

 _No better than my father._

His whole body felt rigid. He was bracing himself for an unbearable pain, but he swore to himself he would not make this any harder for her than he already had. He would not fall apart; he would not burden her with that.

"Just say it," he heard himself whisper through gritted teeth. He was staring at her white-knuckled hands in his. They were so cold.

He was not looking at her anymore, which Rivka found a relief, but only briefly. His averted gaze allowed her to study _him_ , and the frozen look of anticipated suffering on his face threatened to shatter both her heart and her resolve to confess. She saw him close his eyes as she drew breath to speak, and suddenly it became obvious. _He believes I intend to leave him – that I am casting him off._

 ** _That_** was so far from the truth it could not be allowed to stand, and so, paradoxically, it propelled her past her reluctance.

"Heath," she said quietly, "I did not bring you out here to tell you it is over between us. I am not leaving you – unless you feel that I should." He looked up, alarm and confusion coming back into his face. She hurried to continue, as she could see he was searching for something to say. "I need to tell you – I – I think I am –" She shook her head impatiently. _There is no **maybe** about it. Be honest. _"Heath, I am pregnant."


	102. Chapter 101 - The Path of the Wind

_As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, nor how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou knowest not the works of God who maketh all._

 _Ecclesiastes 11:5_

* * *

 ** _Sullivan's Creek, December 31, 1874_**

"You're – you're what -?" Heath was not entirely sure he had spoken clearly enough to be heard.

 _I am not leaving you._ Reprieve, undeserved salvation, unlooked-for joy. He staggered back from the gallows that had been looming in his mind. And then -

 _I am pregnant._ That _is_ what she said. He was sure of it.

"How -? But you said -" He stopped and shook his head slightly. "That don't make no difference." His eyes met hers, and he wished he understood what he was seeing there.

She was just looking at him, wide-eyed in the abrupt silence of the pine grove. He was dizzy. _Breathe._ He took a breath, and hoped his fool self would remember to keep up the breathing, because right then all he could think about was his girl, and what she had just told him.

"Rivka –?" he whispered.

* * *

From the moment the words left her mouth, Rivka had been watching his face, and the converging and diverging emotions that were raging through him. She watched, and wondered which way that flooded river would eventually flow. She saw joy in him - a vast joy, she was certain of it - but it was submerging now in a tide of worry – and something else. He was studying her with a combination of reverence, love, and fear that reminded her, she realized, of Teleli.

He held her lightly. His hands hovered over her shoulders and then slid gently down her arms as he left his seat and knelt on the ground in front of her. He looked her up and down with awe and a stunned smile on his face, as if she were a goddess of the forest who had suddenly appeared before him.

He reached up to touch her hair and brush a stray piece from her face. "Are you OK?" he asked. "Have you been sick?"

Before she could answer, he had taken her hands again in both of his and was suddenly speaking in a rush. "Rivka – marry me – I'll take care of you, I promise I will. I know I haven't given you much reason lately to think I can, but I'm better now, I'll be better. I'd do anything for you. Please marry me. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I put you in this position. It's my fault -"

 _It's my fault._ That jolted her out of her silence. " _Your_ fault? Heath, I lied to you." The wound was exposed. She could see no mercy in a tentative approach. _Lay it open and let it drain._

"Lied to me -?" She felt his hands go still on hers. "About what?"

The list of things about which a lover might lie is long and dark, but before he had a chance to go there, she plowed ahead. "I told you it was OK, when we were together in the barn. It wasn't. I knew it wasn't." After weeks of lonely silence, now the words came pouring out. "I didn't care. I wanted you. I felt like I was losing you. Every day I saw you fighting to hold on, every day I felt like I might never see you again. Heath –" She was crying now. "I had to _watch_ while those soldiers tried to shoot you off the barn roof. And I was so angry about your father – I could see how much it hurt -" She caught her breath – and let it out, surprisingly, in an exhausted, resigned laugh.

"I couldn't stop those mindless soldiers shooting at you. I couldn't do anything about your stupid father. But **_I_** loved you. **_I_** wanted you. I have _always_ wanted you. And I wanted you to have me." She drew in a ragged breath, and continued more softly. "I know it makes no sense. I feel I understand your mother a bit better now. I just couldn't lose you…I broke the trust you placed in me. I am so sorry. Please forgive me, Heath – please try - I hope you can –"

"- forgive you?" he finished for her. The shock of what she had just told him – _I knew it wasn't_ – was still reverberating in him. He had felt, for a brief second, as if the ground had vanished from under his feet. _Trust._ He couldn't not trust her. He couldn't go there. That was not something he could live with. He closed his eyes, fighting to find his balance, feeling himself backing away from a dark, bottomless place. It echoed with despair, and it pulled at him. _I lied to you._

"No," he gritted out under his breath. " _No_."

It pulled at him, but it was wrong. It was all wrong. There was no healing there, no compassion.

 _Stronger, more beautiful in the places that were broken -_

Her hands tightened in his, and he heard her quick intake of breath, a quiet sob. She was shaking. Realizing she was misunderstanding his words, he hurried to put his arms around her.

"No, darlin', no, don't cry." He hugged her close. "Not forgive you? How could I not forgive you? **_I_** put you in that position. I made you feel that way."

He pulled back to look into her sad, dark eyes. "If anyone should be asking forgiveness, it's me. How have I been any better than my father? I'm worse – at least my mother knew where she stood with him and what she could expect. I am so sorry I left you alone. Sorry for everything I have put you through.

"I've been crazy, Rivka. Up on that mountain, it all got so much worse. I wanted to die. I had given up. Something helped me pull back from that. Everything I've done since I left, I did so I could come back to you. I just want to be able to stand at your side. I want to be the husband you deserve. I want to be a good father. I ain't all the way there yet, darlin', but I'm so much closer than I was before. Marry me, please, Rivka. Give me a chance. Give me a chance to -"

She silenced him with a kiss - a sweet, slow, passionate kiss. In the sudden hush, the sound of the creek bubbled up through the woods from the ravine below. Her kiss was everything he needed and wanted. He gave himself to that kiss, as the flowing river sang them a peaceful song.

He was weak with overwhelming relief. That feeling gradually passed, though, and then the reality of what she had said began to sink in. He sat back and regarded her with concern. "Tell me how you've been feeling. You don't look like you've been eating enough."

She tried to reassure him on that account. "I was pretty sick last week, but it's much better. Hannah has helped so much." She stroked one hand through his hair. "You look like you could use some time out to pasture yourself, cowboy. Did Teleli help you?"

"More than I can say." He gazed at her somberly. "I hope John can turn this around. If he can't, I don't know what I might be facing."

She could see it in his eyes. The weight of his choices, and possible consequences - already heavy enough – was taking on an even greater gravity. "Love, you must do what you think is right. We'll figure out the rest together."

He straightened up suddenly and gasped, wide-eyed with trepidation. "Oh, no."

"What? What is it?"

He brought a hand to his forehead, searching her face as though he could find there a solution he – apparently - desperately needed. "What am I – oh, lord, Rivka, what am I going to say to your father?"

She laughed outright. "You? You're worried about what **_you_** are going to say to my father? What about **_me_**? What am **_I_** going to say?" She shook her head with an indulgent smile. She had had many days and sleepless nights agonizing over this herself, but right now she was near giddy with the relief of knowing she could face those difficult conversations with Heath at her side.

"You're right, though, cowboy. I expect any wrath of his will be directed right at you. You haven't exactly been keeping up on the studies he assigned you, either. Looks to me like you've got a whole lot less time now to get up to speed. And Rabbi Levi has tough standards." She couldn't stop laughing at the look on his face. She had to get in one more dig. "Well, don't worry too much about that, love. Moshe and I will both help you study. But what, Heath, are you going to say to my mother?"

 _Hadassah._ Heath covered his face with both hands and groaned. "Oh, lord."


	103. Chapter 102 - What Feels Like Family

_I shall go back into the darkness,  
_ _Not to dream but to seek the light again._

 _I shall go by paths, mayhap,  
_ _On roads that wind around the foothills  
_ _Where the plains are bare and wild  
_ _And the passers-by come few and far between._

 _I want the night to be long, the moon blind,  
_ _The hills thick with moving memories,  
_ _And my heart beating a breathless requiem  
_ _For all the dead days I have lived._

 _When the Dawn comes—Dawn, deathless, dreaming—  
_ _I shall will that my soul must be cleansed of hate,  
_ _I shall pray for strength to hold children close to my heart,  
_ _I shall desire to build houses where the poor will know shelter, comfort, beauty.  
_ _And then may I look into a woman's eyes  
_ _And find holiness, love and the peace which passeth understanding._

 _William H. A. Moore, "It Was Not Fate". The Book of American Negro Poetry._

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, December 31, 1874_**

Hannah watched them ride through the village gate at an easy lope. Even at that distance, she could see the return of ease and connection between them, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you Lord, that's good, that's good. That is as it should be." She threw her wrap around her shoulders and walked down to meet them.

"Hannah, Hannah, Hannah," he sang, as he picked her up in a hug. He set her down and knelt in front of her. "Hannah. Thank you for seeing to Rivka. I can't tell you how much I – I know she needed someone, and I wasn't here – you are such a blessing, Hannah. I don't know how to thank you."

"Family, child. Family. No need to say more." She stroked his sun-blanched hair and smiled down at him. "Seems you two have talked out a few things?"

He smiled, blushed a little, nodded. "The big things. Got a lot of smaller things to figure out."

"That's good, child, that's good -" She was searching his face now in that way that she had, as if she was listening to something a long ways off. He waited. He knew there was history they had yet to discuss. She studied him, and then her expression eased. She seemed to set her concerns aside. "We can talk later," she said finally, with a gentle smile. "Welcome back, Heath. Welcome home."

He spent the rest of the day blessedly immersed in the work of the developing hospital and village, happily putting his hand to whatever task needed doing, and usually attended by a fluid entourage of children. When Montana returned to the barn in late afternoon, accompanied by Nick and Jarrod, they found Heath hanging almost upside down from the rafters of the loft, engaged in a vigorous discussion with Rivka about the best placement for pipes to bring water into the building. As they approached, Heath was handing off his tools to one of his young helpers so he could point out a detail on the diagram Rivka was holding.

"See, if I bring it in along the south face, I can put the holding tank on the sunny side of the building – then I can easily route the pipes to your surgery area through here."

She was nodding. "OK, I see what you're saying…"

Nick surveyed the interior of the barn, hands on his hips. "You got a lot done in one afternoon," he commented.

Husu came in from outside to begin the process of rounding up the children for dinner. He stopped to look critically up at Heath, and then nodded in approval. "Good thing you lawmen are riding herd on him," he commented to Montana, completely deadpan. "He was a lazy slacker before. Now at least we are getting some useful work out of him."

Nick rounded on the teenager, an outraged rejoinder on his lips, but was brought up short by Jarrod's laughter. Husu, still mostly straight-faced, was watching Nick closely.

Nick huffed. "You've got a helluva sense of humor," he muttered.

"That is true," Husu admitted. He grinned. "And you have a helluva protective instinct."

"Yep. Gotta love that about Nick," Heath agreed from the rafters.

"You're looking a bit more limber, Heath." Jarrod had noticed this immediately. He could not help but wonder how much of the improvement was purely physical, and how much came from his evidently easier state of mind.

"Rivka's secret recipe hot pepper salve," Heath confided. "When it wears off, believe me, I'll know it." He swung down to the barn floor, still clearly avoiding the use of his left arm wherever possible. On his feet once again, he wrapped up the elbow and stuck his hand inside his shirt to give the arm a rest.

This brought up another question for Jarrod. "So, Heath," he mused, "how were you using that longbow all these weeks with only one arm?"

Heath gave a laugh. "Y'know, that's the first thing Jed asked me when he found me up there in the Inyo." He shrugged. "The short answer is I learned to shoot left-handed. Didn't have much choice – ya can't eat rocks for dinner. And in the beginning I taught -" He cut himself off, remembering he could not bring Teleli into this, or any, conversation. He backtracked. "I could pull with the arm OK, but I couldn't brace it out straight. Still can't, but I'm working on it."

"Well, speaking of that," Montana interjected, "that is, speaking of what you were just then careful **_not_** to speak of, Mr. Barkley -"

Heath shifted and tensed slightly at the name "Barkley". He _winced_ , in fact, and looked away. Jarrod was nearly sure of it - and then he was certain, when he saw the flash of concern on Nick's face. _Nick noticed it too._

Heath had his eyes on the floor now, his hands shoved in his pockets. Nick, finding no explanation or reassurance coming from his younger brother, turned his puzzled eyes to Jarrod. Jarrod frowned slightly, shrugged, and shook his head, thinking, _I don't know, brother Nick. Wait and see. I'm not sure either, but I don't think this is going to be all smooth and easy…_

"- speaking of that, Mr. Barkley," Montana had continued, with barely suppressed distaste for the execution of his duty, "it's time for you to get back to your bunk with us for the night. That is, if you haven't changed your position regarding your refusal to cooperate with…well, you know. Have you?"

"Nope." Heath sighed, shaking his head. He looked up at Rivka. To Jarrod's eye he was studying her with unusually intense concern, but then he lightened his tone with an effort. "Seems to be the story of my life lately, darlin'. Weren't we just talking the other day about dancing, and dinner?"

"We were, and I'm holding you to it, cowboy. Don't you think I won't." She returned his smile, though she, too, was clearly preoccupied. She kissed his cheek and gave him a long hug. "I guess I'll see you in the morning…I've got plenty of work for you to do."

"Well, it ain't the first time I spent New Year's Eve in jail," Heath said, settling his new hat on his head. "Though in Carterson we weren't exactly celebratin' the holiday."

"Isn't the second time either," Rivka commented, grinning as he winced at the memory.

"Boy howdy, don't remind me."

"What happened?" Nick demanded.

"Heath decided to celebrate his 18th birthday a little early, in, where was it? Modesto? Anyway, the local sheriff poured this disorderly drunkard into a jail cell to sleep it off. Frank had to come bail out his own deputy, which he was not happy about. So he sang "Happy Birthday" and "Auld Lang Syne" to Heath, loudly, all the way back to Jubilee."

Heath groaned. "I was so hung over. He tortured me. He can be a brutal man, Frank Sawyer."

The four men rode back to Sonora together, traveling at a leisurely walk. Montana hung back and let the brothers set the pace ahead.

Jarrod nudged Jingo to come up alongside Charger. "Everything OK with Rivka, Heath? You seem worried."

Heath did not respond at first. Jarrod was not surprised when Heath demurred, saying there were some things he had to think through, and some things that he couldn't talk about it yet. What **_was_** surprising was the look on Heath's face as he gave that answer. Jarrod would bet his law license on it: whatever was on his mind, Heath _wanted_ to talk to him about it. His reticence was honoring some other imperative.

"That's OK, Heath. When you're able to talk about it, I'm here to listen. And help, I hope."

"Thanks," Heath murmured. He took a deep breath and blew it out as he tipped his head back to the deepening blue of the evening sky. "Sure is good to be back in my own head, most of the time, at least. Sure is good to be out riding with you and Nick."

"Mother and John and Audra miss you terribly, too. And Silas, just as much. Do you know – when we finally got a wire from Jed a week ago that you were alive – I was convinced that gentle, impeccably well-mannered man was going to tackle me and yank the telegram from my hand if I did not immediately give it to him to read? I kid you not – he was hovering at my elbow like a wolf ready to attack."

"And -?" Heath prompted, chuckling at the image.

"I gave it to him. I'm no fool. He read it before Mother and Audra were even downstairs."

"He's family," Heath nodded, smiling wistfully. "Like Hannah says. No need to say more."

"Do you feel like family, Heath?" Jarrod found he could not stop the question from finding voice. He was acutely aware of Nick, vigilant but uncharacteristically silent, riding behind and to his left, just at the edge of his vision.

There was another silence, which in itself was a partial answer. Heath looked up at the sky again, and groaned under his breath as he tried to roll the painful stiffness from his back and shoulders.

"No," he said quietly. "Yes." He rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. Jarrod, I – I feel like I need some time to – to just live. Just let some things settle in place. Do I feel like family? I'm not sure I know what that means, in your world."

 _In my world._ In another place and time, Jarrod might have debated the idea of _your world_ and _my world_. He had learned a great deal about _different worlds_ , however, over the year-and-a-half of this brother's sojourn in their family, and he would no longer argue that point.

"I meant what I said to you and Nick yesterday. _You_ mean everything to me. And Mother, and John; Audra and Silas."

"But -?"

"I love the work. I love the land. But – I don't - I don't think I can just step back into the life I was leading at the ranch. I wish I could explain myself better. It feels wrong."

" _The life you were leading._ You say that as if it didn't belong to you. Like it was something you borrowed."

"Borrowed. I think you may be right about that, Jarrod. You're a smart man. " Heath looked down at the dirt track moving along under Charger's steady gait. "I should never have come so soon after my Mama died. I've been some kind of mess, one way or another, from the first day I rode under that gate. I _borrowed_ a lot – borrowed plenty I'd like to keep and make my own. I've learned so much, from all of you. So many things I admire."

"But -?" Jarrod prompted again.

"I borrowed this name, and it just ain't sittin' so easy with me right now."

Jarrod pursed his lips, nodded. "I can understand why." _Go ahead, Jarrod, point out the rest._ "It's not just the name, is it, Heath. There is all that goes with it. The public image, the local histories – the family histories. Given Father's less-than-admirable history with you, Heath, does the Barkley name deserve **_your_** hard work, **_your_** intelligence? **_Your_** skill, building up Tom Barkley's legacy and honoring his memory? Does **_he_** deserve that?" Anger, disappointment, and grief were starting to wear through the usually smooth modulation of his voice, and Heath looked up to watch his face with some curiosity. Jarrod found he welcomed the rise of emotion. These were questions he had been mulling over in silence for weeks, and it was a relief to speak some of it aloud.

"You borrowed the name. I have to say, Heath, there have been days lately when I have envied you that fact. I was _born_ to it. I said something once to Nick, in reference to you, and our bigoted employees. I said that he and I were born to the name, and that gave us immunity from the gauntlet you were facing with our men.

"It doesn't feel much like immunity anymore. I am _stuck_ with the name, and I have to find some way to live with my father's over-large public, private, and personal memory. I have to find some way to reconcile this massive failure of his with all of the things that I loved and admired and cherished about him. I haven't yet figured out how to do that, Heath, so if you have any advice, I'm all ears."

"I don't know, Jarrod," Heath said softly after a pause. "He's dead and gone. He shouldn't matter, but he does. The people we loved and admired don't disappear when they're dead. Maybe it's as simple as remembering and honoring what was good and true, and letting the rest go back to dust."

"Simple."

"I imagine it's like a lot of things. Simple once you figure it out."

Jarrod tried to breathe past the sadness he was feeling. One more question.

"So – presuming we can get this legal thing straightened out –" He hesitated.

Heath waited.

"Will you come back to the ranch?"

Another pause.

"No." Silence. "Not yet."

"Not yet." Jarrod could hear Nick growing tense; heard his intake of breath; he could picture him sitting up straighter in the saddle, though he could no longer see him clearly in the dark.

"What will you do?"

"Stay here."

"Why here?" Jarrod asked, though he was certain he knew.

"Rivka needs me. We need time together. She has important work to do, and I can help with that. I can help this village. I can work, and live, and just be who I am, and get my busted-up mind and my busted-up body healthy again. Then maybe I can figure out what to do about being a Barkley." He looked over his shoulder. "Nick. Stop lurking. Come on up here and make a fuss. You're making Jarrod nervous."

Nick growled, but he rode up alongside, scowling under his black Stetson. "I'm not going to push. It's my New Year's resolution. I am going to wait. Bide. My. Time. Wait, patiently, until **_this_** boy gets his **_head_** on straight and figures out where he is supposed to be. **_Working_**. On **_our ranch_**."

"This is you not pushing?"

"I give this 24 hours at the most."

"Ten dollars says he won't make it 'till noon tomorrow."

"You're on."

They arrived, finally, back at the Marshal's office. Up the street, the New Year's celebration at the hotel was just getting up a head of steam. The Marshal's office was lamp lit, as was the covered sidewalk, and Jed was waiting anxiously outside for their arrival. Nick immediately asked what was wrong.

"Gotta talk to Raul first. C'mon inside, the cell's unlocked. I'll take care of the horses after." He vanished out to the road to talk to Montana.

"I don't like the sound of that," Jarrod said.

Heath stood by the open door of the cell, looking very reluctant to step inside. He turned to listen as Montana and Jed came into the office.

"Bad news," Montana reported, his words rough and dry as sandpaper. There was a battlefield intensity in his eyes that all three men recognized. Heath wrapped a hand around the iron of the cell door and squeezed, feeling his heart pound in his fingertips. _Watch and wait._

"John was ambushed outside Sacramento."

"Oh, no." That was Jarrod. "How bad -?"

"He's injured but alive. He was en route with Peale to confront the Governor with some additional evidence – encoded ledgers that only Peale could decrypt. Peale would only agree to decode the evidence if he – - - well, the point is, John picked up several deputies and a reinforced transport for security on the road to Sacramento. Should've been enough."

Montana looked at the wire Jed had received in his absence. "The transport was attacked with an overwhelming force, in the hills outside of Sacramento. At least twenty heavily armed men, with explosives, from ambush. One deputy is dead, the four others and John injured, the transport bombed and burned."

"And Peale?"

"Peale is dead. The evidence – the ledgers – burned up. Seems our Governor didn't want that man, or that information, to arrive at his doorstep."

Jarrod and Nick both turned to Heath, who was looking decidedly pale and standing with a death grip on the bars of the cell door. "Go to John." It was almost a whisper. He cleared his throat. "Go to John, and Mother – send word, please, let me know how he is."

"What about – Jarrod, where does this leave Heath? We were counting on -"

"I don't know, Nick. I don't know." He looked at his brothers, wide eyed in the anger and shock of the moment. "Nick, you should go to the ranch first to get Mother. I'll ride straight to Sacramento."


	104. Chapter 103 - Persistence

_And therefore on this rock of little ease  
Thou still shalt keep thy watch, nor lying down,  
Nor knowing sleep, nor ever bending knee;  
And many groans and wailings profitless  
Thy lips shall utter; for the mind of Zeus  
Remains inexorable. Who holds a power  
But newly gained is ever stern of mood._

 _Aeschylus, "Prometheus Bound"_

* * *

 _The characteristic of heroism is its persistency…If you would serve your brother, because it is fit for you to serve him, do not take back your words when you find that prudent people do not commend you._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Heroism"_

* * *

 ** _Central Pacific Railroad Hospital, Sacramento, California, December 31, 1874_**

"Marshal, what are you doing…? You can't get up. You can't **_leave_** – McLean, give me a hand over here! Marshal Smith –"

Davy Whitman, a young hospital orderly, was struggling to coax, redirect, and finally wrestle his patient back down to the stretcher that had brought the injured marshal in from what sounded like a catastrophic attack. He was having little success.

Seven other similar stretchers were lined up in the dimly lit receiving room of the hospital. Of the seven, four held covered, motionless occupants. Davy understood these to be the bodies of two ambushers; one of Smith's deputies; and the former Sheriff of Jamestown, Martin Peale. The three remaining stretchers were occupied by Smith's surviving deputy marshals, all injured, groaning, and moving with varying degrees of distress. They were requiring urgent attention from the medics; overall, however, they were cooperating with the medical personnel who were tending to them.

Not so for Marshal Smith. The renowned marshal, to Davy's inexperienced eye, was just as much in need of medical tending as any of his deputies, but he was determined to get up off his gurney and continue on about his business in Sacramento.

Smith deflected the orderly's restraint with one long arm and managed to haul himself to his feet, where he paused, swaying slightly. He was filthy, covered as he was with road dust, soot, and blood – his own and his deputies' – and he smelled strongly of burnt wood and gunpowder. He loomed over Davy, who felt for a moment as if he were pinned to the floor by those burning gray eyes. Davy glanced once more over at his co-workers. No help there. Smith peered at the orderly's nametag, clearly struggling to get the word into focus.

"Whitman," he rasped. He was so hoarse as to be almost inaudible, but the tone of command was unmistakable.

"Yes, sir?"

"I have an appointment with the Governor that I intend to keep. I would appreciate your help finding my hat, my gun, a canteen of water and the quickest doorway out of here." He stopped and tried to swallow back the raw, burning ache the smoke had left in his lungs and throat. He took a careful breath and continued. "If you won't help, then I'd suggest you get the hell out of my way. You understand me, son?"

"Yes – um, yes, sir." A second later, Davy was reaching to keep his patient on his feet as a fit of coughing doubled the marshal over and very nearly put him to the floor.

Smith pressed a hand against the wound in his side and grimaced as a multitude of other injuries began to yell for his attention. The coughing eased, and he nodded his thanks for Davy's steadying hand as he straightened up slowly. He was pale, with a sheen of perspiration now on his skin, but there was grim fury in those eyes. Davy found himself thinking that whoever set that ambush on Marshal Smith was about to have a very bad day.

* * *

 _ **Marshal's Office, Sonora, California, December 31, 1874**_

Heath paced. Montana had mercifully left the cell door open, as he could see his young guest's state of mind. Heath was also the sole occupant of Montana's lockup that evening, as they had shipped out the rest of Archer's accused felons the day prior.

Jed had ridden out to let Rivka know what was happening. Montana grabbed a chair and dragged it into the lockup, then settled himself down to sit outside the cell with a groan. His eyes followed the young man as he paced around the perimeter of the ten-by-ten-foot space.

Montana pulled out some tobacco. "Want a smoke, Heath?"

"No thanks, Marshal," came the soft reply.

Montana rolled his tobacco and lit it with a steady hand, squinting at the ceiling as he blew out a cloud of smoke. Heath paced.

"You want a drink?"

Heath gave a short, dry laugh. "Yes – but no – no, thanks." He stopped, briefly, wrapping his hands around the bars. His eyes roamed around the boundaries of his cell, as if searching for some kind of comfort or good news. He winced slightly and raked his hands into his hair on either side of his head. His jaw was clenched; he made a sound of pain – or of frustration - Montana wasn't sure which.

"You got a headache?"

"Something like that."

"You want that box of Teleli's? With that dried up stuff?"

Heath turned sharply and met Montana's careful gaze for the first time since he had walked back into the cell. Montana was not sure what he was seeing in the boy's eyes right then. One thing was clear: Heath was cornered and facing long odds - and he knew it. He was thinking, though, and seemed a long way from giving up. Montana wondered how the medicine box figured into all of it.

Heath swallowed and rubbed his forehead, looking away. "I don't know. We didn't talk about how to use it if I was locked up somewhere. And besides there's too much else -" He took one more searching look around the cell, then shoved his hands in his pockets and started pacing again. Montana did not miss the fact that his hands were shaking.

 _Helluva corner this boy's backed himself into,_ he considered. _But he seems more worried about Smith than he does about protecting his own hide._ Montana had understood the look on Heath's face when they heard what had happened. "Yeah," he agreed, just as if Heath had continued their exchange. "Yeah…I'm worried about John too."

This change in tone drew a quick glance from Heath, as the pacing continued.

"Sure ain't good news from Sacramento, son," Montana went on. "If you don't give up that Indian, I 'spect they're gonna come down on you, but **_hard_**. Hell, it might go that way even if you **_do_** give him up."

Heath said nothing. Montana sighed. "Don't think I even need to ask, do I. You ain't givin' him up."

"No."

"Not even with that beautiful lady doctor down there waiting to marry you."

Heath had stopped at the far side of the cell, his back turned, his forearms resting against the iron bars. His answer did not come so quickly this time. He leaned his forehead against his hands and closed his eyes. "No," he said finally, speaking quietly to the iron bars. He sounded – tired.

 _You sure as hell got a right to be tired, kid,_ Montana thought. _Sure as hell do, what with the hills you've crossed. Tired and then some. Seems you've got that Barkley talent for finding yourself in the cross-hairs once again._

 _Awful high price you might be payin' at the end of the day, though, kid._

As he had several times over the past day, Montana found himself looking at Heath and thinking about Jed. Just then, he was full of gratitude for the fact that his informally adopted son had found a safer and far more peaceful path to adulthood than Heath Thomson ever did.

 _Jed's always had a safe home,_ Montana considered. _He's had a family that could protect him and stand with him. Hiram and Abby didn't have a lot of kin hereabouts, but they had some – and I have plenty. We weren't poor, we weren't outcast. Between all of us, Jed has never been in lack of family. He didn't have to fight it out on his own, didn't have to leave home to make a stake for himself. Is that the difference?_

Montana did not know the answer, but he realized it was the question that had been nagging at Jed himself, since he returned with Heath. _Jed doesn't care who his father was,_ Montana could see. _He cares about this beat up cowboy. He wants to understand the paths they have travelled._

"It's funny," Montana commented to his restless inmate.

"Funny?"

"Well, you're Tom's kid, all right. In looks, at least, but not your temperament so much, in my opinion. Met him in '49, when he was just about Jarrod's age, and probably not long after you were born, if my math is right. I knew him passing well. I liked Victoria better, though. I considered her a good friend. Looked forward to when they'd come through town." He regarded the glowing tip of his cigarette, watching the smoke curling upward with a slight smile. "I had me a fine young deputy in those years by the name of Johnny. Headstrong, smart as hell, tended to _thinking_ a bit much before _doing,_ but criminy, was he ever cool under fire. He and Victoria never met back then, least that I remember."

"So what's funny?" Heath had stopped at the far side of the cell. His back was still turned, but was listening to the marshal reminisce, as Montana had hoped he would.

"This war Johnny's stepped into – I saw it coming, though I didn't figure it to come down so hard and so fast. That part isn't funny at all. Johnny and Victoria, though – well, I never saw that coming, but it makes perfect sense to me now. They fit together. He fits that family - **_her_** family. Brave, honest, and kind. Tough. People know the family by Tom's _name_ – and don't get me wrong, he was brilliant in many ways - but that _spirit_ is Victoria's, if you ask me." Another thoughtful pull on the cigarette, and a laugh. "And then – well, then there's _you_."

"What about me," Heath said distantly to the iron bars.

"I been trying to put my finger on it, what's funny. On the face of it, what stake do you have with these Barkleys, other than you were sired by a man who's been dead for years? You didn't know him, he didn't know you."

"What stake do I have?" Heath responded. "No more than Jed has, seems to me."

Montana felt his anger flare up at this - a deep, carefully managed anger, at Tom and his infidelities - and he paused until he felt calmer. He took a deep breath and spoke impassively. "Jed? Maybe - maybe not. No way to know for sure, and Jed doesn't much care to know anyway.

"But that's not my point. My point is this: you fit. What's funny is that you fit **_Victoria's_** family – her stubborn, honest family. Tom don't seem to have a lot to do with it, far as I can see, 'cept he's the only reason you showed up on their doorstep in the first place." Montana was shaking his head in honest puzzlement. "Johnny and Victoria love you like the son they never had together. Not a drop of blood relation between the three of you. How'd **_that_** happen?"

Heath did not have a response for that either. Montana's comment, if anything, intensified the tension and regret that darkened his expression. He pushed away from the bars, and started moving around the cell again.

"They've both been so good to me. I hate what I've put them through. I hate that John's put himself in danger just to get me -"

Montana made a dismissive noise. "Drop that line of thought, son. It's disrespectful."

Heath paused. "Disrespectful?'

"John is doing what he feels is right." He ground out his smoke on the floor. "You gonna second guess the man?"

Heath opened his mouth to respond, then just shook his head.

"That's what I figured." He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes on Heath. "Makes about as much sense as Teleli tellin' you to bail out and give him up. And I'm guessin' he tried."

Heath stood silent for a moment, and then leaned back against the cell bars with a sigh of utter fatigue. "Point taken." Arms crossed, he mirrored Montana's posture. "And yeah, he tried," he admitted, his eyes sad and distant. "This talk don't seem to be making the waiting any easier."

They were interrupted by the sound of running feet pounding up the sidewalk and into the Marshal's office.

"I know already that ain't Jed," Heath commented with a slight smile.

"You'd be right about that," Montana grunted as he got to his feet and walked out to see who had arrived.

He soon returned, having sent the messenger running with several errands and replies. Any humor or nostalgia was gone from his expression. He saw Heath Barkley had gone very still. Standing in the middle of the cell, his blue eyes followed Montana's return and watched every move of his face.

 _He is expecting the worst – and he'd be right._ Montana looked down at the handful of urgent communiques and warnings he had just received. The sound of a sizeable mounted force could already be heard riding up at speed from the north end of town and reining in outside his office.

"My sources tell me," Montana reported, in an oddly subdued and official tone, "that the detachment you hear arriving outside was dispatched from Sacramento well prior to the assault on Marshal Smith. They rode here in order to be in position to take you into custody immediately, as soon as they received word that Smith and his evidence had been intercepted."

The outer door banged open. "Montana!" Many pairs of boots approaching.

Heath tried to clear his bone-dry throat. "Where to, Raul, does it say -"

"Folsom. It says. But who knows." The papers he held were crushed unnoticed in his clenched fist. He looked at Heath, his eyes burning with helpless anger. "They figured the timing right, _goddammit_ ," he growled. He turned to face down the armed men flooding into the anteroom.

It was futile, and he knew it. He got in a few good shots. Montana could hear Heath calling to him to back off and stand down, but it just wasn't in him to do that. They ran him over; they put Heath to the floor and silenced him with brutal efficiency, and then they were gone.


	105. Chapter 104 - Haven

_WHAT do you seek within, O Soul, my Brother?_  
 _What do you seek within?_  
 _I seek a Life that shall never die,_  
 _Some haven to win_  
 _From mortality._

 _What do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?_  
 _What do you find within?_  
 _I find great quiet where no noises come._  
 _Without, the world's din:_  
 _Silence in my home._

 _Whom do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?_  
 _Whom do you find within?_  
 _I find a friend that in secret came:_  
 _His scarred hands within_  
 _He shields a faint flame._

 _What would you do within, O Soul, my Brother?_  
 _What would you do within?_  
 _Bar door and window that none may see:_  
 _That alone we may be_  
 _(Alone! face to face,_  
 _In that flame-lit place!)_  
 _When first we begin_  
 _To speak one with another._

 _E. Underhill, "Introversion"_

* * *

 ** _Pacific Coast, December 31, 1874_**

 _Salt. Salt water._

Teleli came up from underwater with a gasp, breathless from the deep chill of the Pacific. Standing chest deep in the powerful, deceptively languid roll of the surf, he tipped his face to the sky, eyes closed. He felt stone and sand under his feet, felt the heavy pulse of the ocean as it pushed and pulled on his body. Seawater on his lips and tongue carried a taste he knew he had never encountered before he came to this place. It was dark, and green, and oddly familiar; the smell of it tugged at some very old place in his soul.

 _Salt water. How strange…I wonder if I could bring Hekeke and my children to this place someday. So much spirit here, all around._

Eyes still closed, he listened to the rhythmic rumble and whisper of the waves, as they rolled in from a place beyond the horizon. The sound blended into the steady hiss of the wind moving through the palm trees that lined the sand dunes behind him. It was unlike the sounds of wind and water he knew so well, up in the foothills and mountains. Teleli could hear the breath and the heartbeat of the world in that moving water. Having heard it once, here, he believed now he might recognize that deep rhythm almost anywhere.

He waded to the beach and walked a small distance toward the dunes where he had left his clothes and his medicine bag. He felt strong; after a bad stretch of delirium and fever his leg had finally healed, though a deep, irregular scar remained. He dried off and dressed, then turned to face the breathing ocean. The ocean, he knew, would always remind him of Me'weh, but today was different. Today, Teleli thought of Me'weh and was worried.

 _So much power here. So much spirit moving in the air, the water, the ground. I will call it up to help us, Me'weh. I will sing to the wind and sea so you can hear me._

* * *

 _ **Sacramento, California, December 31, 1874**_

"Do you have an appointm –" The receptionist stopped, wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke that had arrived at his polished desk along with this latest supplicant to see the Governor. The fastidious middle-aged man - who jealously guarded access to the Governor at all times from behind a spotless mahogany fortress – looked up at his dirty, smelly visitor and went silent with slack-jawed shock. The man standing in front of him was not supposed to be alive, and was certainly not supposed to walk in, on time, to claim his audience with the Governor.

"M-Marshal – what – what a -"

"What a surprise? To see me still alive, Mr. Burke? Was that what you meant to say?" He stared down at the flustered man.

Before Burke could formulate an answer, the Attorney General appeared behind him. He wore a forced expression of amused condescension, but it did not succeed in masking his alarm at the marshal's unexpected arrival.

"Smith. How – how nice to see you. Glad you could make it. Please come -"

John brushed past him and strode into the Governor's office. The AG gave a nervous laugh for the benefit of the receptionist, and followed the marshal inside.

The Governor watched coldly as Smith approached his desk. Smith looked about ready to keel over - or die - and it briefly occurred to him to drag out the discussion with the troublesome marshal until that happened. He did not, however, believe he would have the patience for that.

"What's your play, Smith?" he inquired bluntly, leaning back in his deep, expensive, leather wing-backed chair.

"What's yours, Governor?" John shot back. "Open war, is it, now? Not even a pretense of law and order? Did you send a second squad of hit men to Sonora?"

The Governor smiled thinly. "Yes, I did, Marshal," he acceded, confirming a fear that had been nagging at John as soon as the attack commenced. "Yesterday, in fact. Your rogue deputy should already be in custody and on his way to Folsom, according to the legal order prepared by my AG and approved by a judge. Was there something else you wanted to discuss before you leave?"

John stood in shock. "Folsom -?" He had a terrible burning pain in his chest. He tried to take a careful breath, but his lungs felt as if they were full of hot, charred coals and he could not suppress the bout of coughing that seized him. Sweating, he fought back the nauseating dizziness, and leaned in over the Governor's desk.

"Your thugs are taking my deputy – my _son_ – to **_Folsom_**? Do I understand you correctly, Governor?" His rasping voice was soft and full of menace, though John at that moment had no idea if there was a single counterattack he could muster right then.

"Your son?" The Governor chuckled sardonically. "I think the smoke has addled you, Marshal. It's 1874, and **_your_** son has been dead for ten years. Buried not far from here, if I'm not mistaken."

John abruptly stepped back from the desk, surprised and unbalanced by this unexpected angle of attack. Undiminished grief was written clearly in his expression, hardening quickly into rage. He stared at the Governor, and then at the AG, who began to squirm with discomfort.

Speaking again to the Governor, John rasped, "Yes. Heath Barkley. My _son_. My wife's _son_. What do you want, Governor? What is your ransom to let that boy go home? Name it."

The Governor smiled.

"You want me? Is that it?"

"It's a place to start."

The office door opened briskly, and a very handsome, neatly dressed young man hurried to John's side carrying a briefcase and several thick folders of documents. "Excuse me, Marshal Smith; I'm so sorry we were delayed arriving. I have all the documents you need."

The new arrival was conservatively dressed in a dark suit and polished shoes that looked brand new. He took no notice whatsoever of the marshal's embattled appearance; he looked him in the eye and spoke with a confident, efficient professionalism, but John could see the slight tremble of his well-manicured fingers as he began to arrange the folders for his review.

Outside the office door, they could hear the sounds of Mr. Burke's distress, as three more young men overrode his protests and entered the office to stand at John's other elbow. These three were also quite handsome and impeccably dressed, with a serious and attentive demeanor, but they, too, showed the small signs of tightly controlled anxiety.

Utterly mystified, John played along. "Glad you made it on time," he replied gruffly, accepting the folders. "Your name?"

"Yes, sir, of course, let me introduce myself. My name is Christopher Hathaway, sir. Recently of Stockton, though my associates and I are currently based in San Francisco. Deputy Marshal Roberts contacted me, knowing that you were in need of several assistants to conclude your business here with the Governor. He felt our experience could be very helpful. We came as quickly as we could."

John looked down at the carefully assembled documents in his hands. Expensive paper, impressive leather binding. The pages were completely blank.

He nodded sagely at the blank pages while his battered, sooty brain tried to process this turn of events.

The ticking of a grandfather clock seemed suddenly loud, and he became aware of the unnatural quiet in the room. Looking up, he realized both the Governor and the AG had gone completely silent. The Governor was staring at Christopher, his ruddy, well-fed face gone a sickly shade of gray. The Attorney General was staring at the Governor, wondering why his patron and protector seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes.

Into this silence stepped Christopher. He spoke brightly with a pleasant smile, but the hand that held the briefcase was white-knuckled, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were deadly serious. "So glad we were able to assist, Marshal Smith." He turned to address the Governor. "And so good to see **_you_** again, Governor. I think the last time we met was during your visit to Stockton, back in November. Sheriff Peale invited you to town to meet with Colonel Morgan, as I remember."

There was a gasp of surprise from the AG as he made the connection with what he knew of the Governor's itineraries. Christopher met his shocked look and nodded in mock sympathy. "Yes, they're both dead now," he said soberly. "Terrible business." He brightened again. "Governor, I believe you also know my associates, do you not?"

Ignoring the fact that the pale, perspiring Governor had failed to respond verbally to any part of his greeting, Christopher turned back to John, holding up the briefcase. "Deputy Marshal Roberts notified Jarrod Barkley that we were coming to you. He directed us to collect these amnesty documents from Mr. Barkley's San Francisco office. I am sure the Governor would like to sign these - right now - while he has the opportunity."

The Governor did so, wordlessly. The AG looked on, wringing his hands. John casually suggested to the Governor that he resign immediately and retire to his plantation he had been bragging about in Colombia. The Governor appeared to be seriously considering the idea.

Replacing the documents in the briefcase, John then rounded on the AG and informed him that he, the AG, would be wiring Folsom Prison immediately. That message would belay all orders of incarceration for Heath Barkley, and instruct the militia holding him to release him at once.

Once that task was accomplished, John expressed his intent to find a horse and ride to Folsom himself, but he was beyond done in. He made it out the door of the Capitol Building under his own power, but was overcome with dizziness and a painful hacking cough that caused him to sway alarmingly at the top of the vast stone staircase leading to the street. Christopher Hathaway and his three companions unanimously appointed themselves bodyguards and medics to the filthy, exhausted marshal. As such, they ignored his hoarse and inaudible protests; they escorted him bodily to a very good hotel; and they cleaned him up and tended to him until his family could arrive.


	106. Chapter 105 - Verge

_Between two worlds life hovers like a star,  
_ _'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.  
_ _How little do we know that which we are!  
_ _How less what we may be! The eternal surge  
_ _Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar  
_ _Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,  
_ _Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves  
_ _Of empires heave but like some passing waves._

 _Lord Byron, "Don Juan"_

* * *

 _ **Outside Angels Camp, California, 1:00 AM, January 1, 1875**_

 _Salt. Salt…_

He woke in the dark to the sound of the sea and the creaking of wood. He could see very little, but felt himself enclosed in a moving, rocking, wooden…boat _._..?

 _Am I on a boat...?_

 _I **hate** boats…I swore I would never take another job on a boat…so why am I…_

In his mind, he could hear wind, and the _crash-rumble-hiss_ of breakers on a beach. As the grogginess lifted, though, he began to feel the jostling movement of wagon wheels beneath him, rolling over rocky, uneven ground.

 _Good_. _Not a boat, then._

He ran his tongue over dry lips. Tasted salt, and yearned for a drink of water. _Salt, and wind, and water…Why do I hear the ocean?_

He groaned slightly as his attempt to shift his position roused various bright and dull points of discomfort in his body. The movement also brought to his ears the metallic sound of chains dragging on the wooden floor.

Then it all came back to him in a sickening rush.

 _Prison lorry._

He closed his eyes and grimaced with frustration.

 _Here I am again. Happy New Year, Heath._

He winced as the wagon hit a rut that jolted right through his bones. He checked his internal sense of time. _Haven't been out for very long…can't be far from Sonora yet. Moving slow._

He wondered if the blank past hour was from taking a punch in the head, or whether his mind had gone away in the midst of the violence. He had a pounding headache, which gave him hope – strange as that hope might seem – that it was not the latter.

 _Folsom._

Heath remembered Montana saying it. The thought of that place scared the hell out of him, no doubt about that. Even so, he had raised his hands and was speaking words of surrender as soon as the gunmen came through the door, because he had also seen the fight in the marshal's eyes, and he knew Montana was not going to get out of the way.

He would have gone quietly - probably - if they had just left the aging marshal alone.

 _They didn't gun him down, thank heaven._ Heath saw a rifle butt knock the marshal to the floor. The men stepped over Montana where he lay stunned and bleeding, and they came for him.

No more word or posture of surrender then. Heath came roaring out of that cell with his head full of nothing but rage.

They made quick work of him, nonetheless. Heath was certain of that, just judging by how he felt lying there in the rumbling dark of the lorry.

 _Smacked me down and tossed me in the back of this cart, looks like._

Reluctantly, he tried to walk himself back through events.

 _Folsom._

Panic - and so many other dark thoughts - bubbled up in the air around him, seeping in, clouding his thoughts, choking his breath.

 _Calm down. Think._

 _Think of waves on the beach._

He could hear them. He could see the heavy green swell and break; the hiss and roll of the stones; the rough shine of the wet sand; the whispering retreat.

The wind. The breathing sea…that taste on his tongue.

 _Salt – salt water –_

He couldn't say if it was his blood he tasted, or tears, or sweat - or all of those.

 _All signs of life, at least. Funny how it all tastes of salt._

He listened to the ocean. The pulse of it settled him down. He stared up into the dark and let his mind rise and fall with the waves. Remembered the agony of saline laid on an open wound, and the healing that came after; remembered the taste of his mother's mouth as she breathed life into his child's body, and the salt of her fevered skin as he kissed her goodbye one last time.

 _Signs of life._

It was the beating heart of the woman he loved, and the life that grew in her.

 _I have to get back to Rivka. I have to get back to my family._

The lorry creaked and rumbled. There was a gust of wind, strong enough to rock the vehicle and prompt some cussing from the armed outriders. The complaints grew louder as the wind steadied into a gale and a heavy cold rain began to fall.

Heath heard the two drivers dismiss their escort of mounted gunmen, unnecessary now that their passenger had been subdued and contained. There were a few laughs and shouts of "It's about time" and "Happy New Year" _,_ and then the fading sound of the men riding away. Lying in the dark, Heath remembered Montana, bleeding; he pictured John, injured, who knew yet how badly; and he had to fight to contain the defensive rage that was hammering in his chest.

 _This is a war. I will not be hostage to this._

Hands clenched into fists, Heath lay still as death, listening until he was certain no one remained but the drivers.

* * *

 _ **Folsom, California, Dawn, January 1, 1875**_

The brightening sky beyond the mountains gradually illuminated the broad flow of the American River. The four riders picked up their pace, as daylight gave a clearer view of the wide, well-traveled road they had followed east out of Sacramento. They moving at a steady hand gallop, winding along the south bank of the river.

Victoria Barkley Smith, easily the most rested and energetic of the group, was keeping a close eye on her husband. John rode at her side, grimly focused on intercepting the prison transport, finding Heath, and bringing this terrible turn of events to a close. To her experienced eye, he seemed just as ferociously focused on the challenge of staying upright on his horse, breathing without coughing, and keeping up their vigorous pace.

Despite their serious concerns of the moment, Victoria found herself once again struggling not to grin as she remembered how – after some anxious detective work of their own – she, Nick, and Jarrod had found John at the luxurious Sacramento Golden Eagle Hotel. For much of this ride she had been avoiding eye contact with her two sons, in fact, for fear of laughing aloud.

The three of them had hurried to the door of the suite. Victoria had raised her gloved hand to knock, when she heard the debate underway inside. Surprised, she paused to listen, her hand still poised in the air. She could hear John trying his best to give orders, but his voice was barely audible, and he was well outnumbered by his caretakers. The gist of the argument was clear: the marshal wanted to get up and get on his way to Folsom; the four young men would have none of it. They in fact were barking orders right back at him, all the while maintaining a tone of respect and admiration.

In rapid succession, Marshal Smith was told to go lie down –

"If you won't get back in bed, sir, then you can just sit down right there by the stove. There. **Sit**."

\- to hold still while they finished bandaging him up –

"Sir, stop your fussing, you will just make this take longer."

 _-_ to drink some broth and eat something –

"No whiskey, sir, not until you get some food in your stomach. **_No_**. Marshal – sir - put that down. Right now."

 _-_ and to cooperate while they got him into some clean clothes.

"Marshal, give me that filthy shirt, sir. I am throwing that out. Sir, _yes_ , you **_absolutely_** need a shave. Sit back down. **_Sit_**."

They all needed a minute to get their expressions and their laughter under control before Victoria raised her hand once more to knock. Christopher received them eagerly. He escorted Victoria to John's side (where one young man was finishing the shave) and provided her with a detailed and somewhat intimate accounting of her husband's injuries. John scowled, surprised, at parts of Christopher's report. He then fidgeted and looked away, blushing, when Christopher sternly pointed out that the marshal had been filthy and nearly unconscious by the time they had gotten him to the hotel room, and had been in no condition to be bathing himself. Jarrod and Nick broke up in laughter at that point, and informed the discomfited marshal that as a new member of their family, he would never, ever live this moment down. Never. Not ever.

Victoria knelt beside his chair. There was laughter in her eyes, but there was nothing but love, relief, and gratitude in her kiss as she wrapped her arms around him.

"I'm so glad you're safe, John, I was so worried," she said softly by his ear.

"I'm OK, thanks to these four boys." He glanced up to see their eyes on him. "The word _brave_ doesn't begin to describe what they did." Now it was Christopher who blushed a bit and looked away. John turned back to Victoria. "We have to get out to Folsom. Did Nick and Jarrod tell you -?"

"Yes, they told me. And I know there's no point in telling _you_ to stay put."

"I need a horse."

"I brought Scout," she said, watching his face with a knowing smile.

"Thank you -!" He hugged her and nearly laughed with his relief. "Oh, Vee, I love you. I love you."

"I know, darling. I'm also going to make one of these boys tell me where they hid your boots."

* * *

A little over an hour later, she, John, Nick and Jarrod were galloping east on the road to Folsom, splashing through the mud and water left behind by a winter squall that had come through overnight. Before they had reached the forbidding wall of quarried stone that marked the beginning of prison territory, Nick called a halt with an upraised hand. He pointed southeast.

"Wagon coming." Jarrod and Nick looked at each other with urgency, and then back at John and Victoria. John hesitated, and then nodded.

"Go," he husked. "Go. You can move faster."

The two brothers wheeled their horses and took off toward the approaching lorry at top speed.

John watched them go, hunched wearily over the arm he had wrapped around his aching ribs and belly. Victoria could see he was leaning on the horn of his saddle for support as he fought back another jag of coughing.

"So grateful for those sons of yours, Vee," he said, once he had caught his breath. "Let's – let's get a move on and catch up with them."

They arrived at the lorry to find Jarrod and Nick with handguns drawn, having just convinced the reluctant drivers to halt and stand by for the marshal.

"Gentlemen," John informed them, "I have a copy of the release order for Heath Barkley, signed by the AG."

"Do you," replied the senior driver. He looked bored. "Can I see that, Marshal?" He took his time examining the document, overtaxing everyone's patience.

"That's enough of that," Nick burst out a moment later. "Open the damn wagon. Now." When he did not get an immediate response, he dismounted and strode over to bang on the side of the wagon. "Heath! Heath, can you hear me?" The silence inside the lorry was beginning to scare him badly; he kept his gaze averted from his family, as he knew his fear would be reflected in their faces, and that was not something he wanted to see right then. He whirled back on the guards.

"Get down here and open this thing, dammit." He banged on the side of the lorry again. " _Heath_ -!"

"Get down," Jarrod said coldly, gesturing with his pistol. "Get him out."

"OK, OK, don't get twitchy, boys," the senior driver said placatingly as he climbed down. "He kept givin' us trouble on the way here. Tried to get loose – then he came out fightin' like a mountain lion – was his **_own_** fault we had to put him down hard. He's probably just sleeping it off, don't you think, Red?" He directed this last to his fellow driver.

Red just shrugged, sourly, annoyed with the cold wet weather and the delay. He wanted to get to the prison, get warm and dry, and get off duty as soon as possible. "Yeh, he was a fighter." He spoke to his fingernails. " ** _Was_** a fighter." He looked at his partner and grinned. "Ain't heard nothin' from him for a bit, have we."

John and Jarrod both started to speak, but Victoria beat them to it. She fired her rifle in the air and then leveled it at the head of the senior guard, who went very pale.

"Open it."

"Yes, ma'am." He hurried around back, followed closely by Nick and Jarrod. John, moving slowly, dismounted to join them, as did Victoria, rifle still in hand. The guard unlocked the back and threw open the doors. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark.

Nick turned away abruptly to look up into the foothills, frowning ferociously, and Victoria had the distinct impression he was trying not to cry. She and John rushed forward, full of fear until Jarrod held up a reassuring hand and just laughed.

"What was it last time, John? A bent nail?" Jarrod shook his head in bemusement.

"He's gone...?" John looked inside, needing to confirm it with his own eyes. "Oh, thank God –" He reached in and picked up what looked like a broken cotter pin, camouflaged in the pile of discarded shackles. Smiling at the sliver of metal, he spoke to the two drivers. "You two better git. See if you can figure out how to explain to your watch captain how you drove for hours with no one in your wagon. Go on. Git."


	107. Chapter 106 - Yet Remember

_Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun:_

 _But if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all;_

 _yet let him remember the days of darkness; for they shall be many._

 _All that comes is vanity._

 _Ecclesiastes 11:7-8_

 _Better to light a candle than curse the darkness._

 _Anonymous_

 ** _Middle Fork, Stanislaus River, 3 AM, January 1, 1875_**

Heath was running. Running for his life, maybe – or maybe not. He was almost certain he had gotten away clean, under cover of the noisy winter downpour that was rolling through the foothills tonight. He heard no sounds of pursuit, but he could not forget that his own ability to hear or see an approaching threat in these conditions was similarly limited. He thought it wise at this point to assume the worst and act accordingly. To that end, Heath ran as if the Folsom jailers were right on his tail; he kept off the main trail; and he blessed the cold hard rain for covering his tracks as he made his way south toward Sonora.

That was all the gratitude he could muster for the weather, though. The gunmen had taken everything from him but the pants and the shirt he had on. No belt, boots, or socks; no coat or hat; not even a match was left in his pocket. He was barefoot and soaked from the rain, and the night was only growing colder. He pushed ahead into the dark, knowing his need for shelter was becoming urgent.

 _Keep moving. It ain't the first time I've been in this situation –_

 _Hell, it's not even the first, second, or third time this month, let's be honest –_

 _\- and it might not be the last. But -_

 _But what? What is it? What am I doing out here? How is this any different from every other mess I've gotten into?_

He did not have a clear answer for that, but it _was_ different. Right then, at least, it was different. For the first time in a long while, he was running _toward_ something, instead of running to leave himself behind, or -

 _\- or running to throw myself off a cliff?_

There was a truth there. First time in a long, long while, he felt - together. Felt like all of himself. It had been a long time, since he was a kid, before the war. Since the day he saw those men attack his mother.

 _All of myself. But can I hold on to that? Will I be able to?_

Right then, yes, he thought he could. Tomorrow, he would have to ask himself again, and the day after that, and the day after that, for just as long as he lived, probably.

 _Simple. Right?_

 _I imagine it's like a lot of things: simple once you figure it out._

Distracted by this internal conversation, Heath stumbled as the wet ground gave way under his numb, aching feet. He grabbed a tree trunk for balance and barely kept himself from falling bodily into a deep, new-cut side channel of the rain-flooded Stanislaus River, the main body of which could be heard rumbling moodily ahead in the dark. As it was, he staggered knee deep into the flow before he could reverse his momentum and pull himself back up the bank.

It was more of a landslide than a river channel, he realized, as he felt the weight of the mud clinging to his legs. He eyed the uphill slope anxiously, and began to worry in earnest about his chances of making it across to the south bank in one piece.

His available options looked terrible. He could turn upcountry and try to find a narrower place to cross, at the expense of time and exposure, and at the risk of being flattened by a mudslide or floodwaters on the way. He could backtrack up out of this river valley and try to find some shelter to wait out the storm; or he could head back down to the main trail in hopes that Parrott's Ferry had not washed away in the flooding, as it had done a few times in the past.

That last option was truly the only reasonable one. Problem was, if the Governor's men _were_ out looking for him, that ferry crossing would be the place they would go.

Heath realized he was going to have to take that chance. His feet were bruised and bleeding (as was most of the rest of him, for that matter), and he was so cold he could barely breathe. He did not have the time, or the mobility, to go scouting.

He had not yet given much thought to what would come next, if he survived the storm and the river. If they had failed with the Governor, if his and Teleli's situation was unchanged, Heath could not very well return home, or go to Sutamasina, or even present himself to Montana's office. That militia assaulted a federal marshal _in his own duty station_. Any place Heath went, he put at risk.

 _So where -?_

One more question to which he did not have an answer.

 _Teleli, that warm, southern beach of yours is lookin' mighty appealing right about now._

Heath backed away from the swelling flow of mud and water, shivering violently, and turned to begin a slow, painful hike down to Parrott's Ferry Road. He was fading fast, and he knew it. The wet winter wind hissed in the pines above him. Calling up remembered rhythms of surf and palm tree, he tried to wrap himself in their warmth, and pushed on toward the river crossing.

He reached the ford in the deep quiet dark of 5 AM, the midwinter dawn still hours away. The terrain took a steep drop down to the ferry landing. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the road was a moving stream of mud. Heath paused for many long minutes in the cover of the trees, watching and listening for threats, before he was willing to emerge cautiously and begin the descent to the landing.

The small station appeared unattended. The current ferry was cable-guided, and in the dimness, he could just make out the heavy ropes that stretched out of sight to the opposite shore. There was a capstan at either end, by which a horse or mule could do the work of winching the ferry from one shore to the other, sparing the human passengers the work of hauling themselves across by hand.

Heath could see the flat-bottomed boat moored on the near shore, to his enormous relief, but beyond that, he saw little that was reassuring. The water was high, and the current was strong; the battered old ferry rattled nervously in her mooring between the cables. The Stanislaus muttered and grumbled, bloated with rain, snow-melt, and the brown detritus of countless upstream mining operations. Behind that low, rocky noise, a faint wailing rose and fell as the wind set the ferry cables to humming. The alien, ghostly sound put his teeth on edge.

 _I like rivers,_ he thought. _I hate boats._

He could feel the power of the flood shaking the ground and vibrating in the soles of his bare, mud-covered feet. He did not want to go any closer. He made his frozen, shaking muscles carry him forward. He promptly slipped and fell, tumbling and sliding down the grade until he slammed painfully into one edge of the capstan. For several interminable moments of gray suffocation, the world – and all its breathable air – receded far from him. Then breath and sight returned, and he rolled away, groaning, to lie on the wooden dock. The rain fell on his face. The angry river flowed now mere feet from where he lay cold and exhausted.

 _This seems less like a river, and more like the wrath of God,_ Heath thought, and all at once, he was remembering the first time he passed the New Year in prison.

He had joked a bit about it, last evening, as he left Sutamasina, but he didn't feel like joking now. _All at once._ An apt description for the totality of those memories that came sweeping in uninvited like an invading army.

 _Ten years ago, New Year's Day. The day of the flood. The day I first met Bentell, face to face. The day I met his dogs._

He could feel that hot New Mexico sun on his face. Mikey calling to him from where he lay trapped in the rocks, his voice cracking with pain and fear. "Heath, help me -"

Gunfire as he slid down the steep side of the arroyo to reach Mikey. The rumble in the ground before the flood arrived. The wet growling breath of Bentell's dogs, hot on the back of his neck.

He shuddered. So much fear. It clawed and gripped like a living thing. He grimaced, waiting it out.

 _That was the day Mikey lost his leg._

Heath suddenly found himself smiling.

 _That was also the day Mikey didn't die._

 _New Year's Day. The day Mikey and I didn't drown in the flood. The day I met Bentell and his dogs, and lived to tell about it. The day I found the cave that saved Hadassah and Rivka and Avram and David._

 _It was a good day._

He wasn't entirely convinced, and he knew he was no longer thinking very clearly, but it worked well enough. He rolled to his hands and knees, shook the water from his eyes, and got his first good look at the crossing he had, in his foolishness, thought to attempt. The river had continued to rise. The typically placid stretch of the ferry crossing was no longer just an expanse of high, fast water; it had become a maelstrom of whitewater rapids, standing waves, and deadly debris.

The ground trembled under his hands. It _shuddered_. It was such an odd sensation that it tore his attention from the utterly intimidating sight of the stampeding river before him. He looked at his hands, braced on the waterlogged wood of the dock. With a queasy feeling of _déjà vu,_ he turned to look at the steep forested hills that rose up into the dark behind him. He heard them moan, as if in pain. And then he saw them move.

In the brief seconds before comprehension became action, it occurred to Heath that there might have been a reason – a _useful_ reason – for the memory of Carterson to come invading, now, tonight.

 _Was that possible? Hannah thought it was. She thought all this remembering would help, somehow. Teleli thought so too._

The decade-old memory of that January flood had been tugging at him, he realized, from the moment he stumbled into that overflow channel of mud and floodwater.

As a rule, (as a matter of survival), Heath guarded against such intrusions. They were a gauntlet of suffering done in exquisite detail, summoned up like demons by the unavoidable day-to-day experiences of life. He pushed them away when he could, and suffered through them when he couldn't. But what of their purpose…?

A warning, for example?

The hills moaned in the rainy darkness. They shuddered, and moved –

\- and now he could hear, high up, the terrible cracking sound of full-grown trees, snapping like toothpicks before the irresistible force of a landslide.

Words fled from him, and pure instinct took over.

Clumsy, cold, and moving much, much too slowly, Heath scrambled forward onto the ferry. He knew, in his terrified, nauseated gut, that the only thing that could save him from the apocalypse behind him was the raging expanse of river before him. Rain clouds muffled any glimmer of dawn. He could not see the opposite bank, and the mad, convulsing water he had to cross looked only slightly less deadly than the threat he was fleeing. He fumbled the mooring line loose, grabbed the guide rope with numb hands, and began hauling himself away from the shore.


	108. Chapter 107 - Break of Day

_Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way_  
 _and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,_  
 _though its waters roar and foam_  
 _and the mountains quake with their surging._  
 _There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,_  
 _the holy place where the Most High dwells._  
 _God is within her, she will not fall;_  
 _God will help her at break of day._

 _Psalm 46:2-5_

* * *

 _ **North Fork, Stanislaus River, Dawn, January 1, 1874**_

The storm was passing. The rainfall had become fitful and intermittent. The trailing clouds threw down a last few playful handfuls of water as they raced on, careless and heedless of the destruction they had set in motion in the hills below.

Heath hauled on the rope. Each pull brought him closer to the raging center of the river; the convulsed, foaming troughs and immense, debris-filled waves loomed larger until they were all he could see. The noise was deafening. His whole world had become water, a cold, brutal, cacophony of water.

He crouched on the deck, trying to stay low. The river quickly broached the sides and began to drag at him with a steady, ever-increasing insistence that he let go and get along downstream with all the rest of creation. He struggled to keep his footing. The river pushed harder, and harder; he was fighting the torque of the current from the moment the boat separated from her landing. The rope and tackle connecting the old ferry to the cross cables groaned and wailed as the deck abruptly swamped, twisted, and then just as quickly lifted broadside to the flood, as if the ferry herself was crying out and fighting to escape.

Heath clung to the rope as the deck bucked and dove under him. He gasped for air during the moments of respite as waves – full of branches, and roots, and gravel – were now rising high enough to inundate him completely. He could not feel his hands; each pull of the rope - each increment of progress he made toward the far shore - seemed to take everything he had left. Then he would get a breath in, reach out, and pull a little bit farther.

 _So small, so small,_ he thought. He felt no more significant than a twig or a leaf in the face of this force of nature. _These mountains could just brush me aside, roll right over me, take me back to dust with no more trouble than me kicking a pebble out of my way. So small –_

As if in response – in loud affirmation of this thought – the clouds dissipated. The sky cleared, and dawn arrived. The morning light revealed to Heath's eyes what he had only so far imagined. The sight – the reality – was initially incomprehensible. It was paralyzing, in fact; as he gaped in numb shock, the river shoved even harder, and almost succeeded in her demand that he be cast off and crushed against the rocks downstream. Primal fear came surging back. He scrambled for balance and turned back to the ropes.

He had fled into this maelstrom thinking it very likely would kill him. If a big chunk of debris did not take him out, the ferry itself would probably flip and tear loose in midstream, throwing him into a current that was right then powerful enough to be rolling cattle-sized boulders like dice. Yes, this crossing would probably end him - but **_that_** – what was coming down – **_that_** was sure death, no maybe about it.

He glanced back once more, aware that the enormity of it made him want to cower and cover his eyes like a frightened child. The mountain was **_moving_**. It was falling – melting – rolling – **_surging_** down toward him, toward the river, and consuming everything in its path. He flinched as the rifle-report sounds of snapping trees pierced through the roar of the flood and the landslide. He turned away, wasting no breath on even a whimper of fear. He pulled on the rope. He fought the boat, as the boat fought the current, and he prayed: silently, wordlessly.

He was just past midstream when the mountain reached the river.

The moaning, roaring sound of it redoubled and echoed up and down the gulch. Almost instantly, the water rose, the current surged, and the shockwave of the collision flattened him onto the deck of the ferry. Heath fought to stay on board and get his head back above water. He chanced another look upstream.

 _I'm not gonna make it._

 _It's all so much bigger than me –_

He had to look away.

 _I ain't dead yet. But Mama, I'm so tired, so tired - I need to rest, please, can't I just rest, for a minute… -_

 _Heath, baby, there's no point in cryin' about it. There's only one way to get home, my love, and that way ain't by givin' up and waiting to die. As for resting, well, rest is coming for you, of one kind or another, one way or another. Even the weariest river, my son, winds somewhere safe to sea. All you can do is keep moving, do what seems true and right._

He could see the far shore now, blurred and indistinct. Thought he saw movement there, for a second, before he was submerged again in another surge of icy, muddy water. Gasping, he pulled himself back up, trying to blink the water and silt from his eyes so he could see.

 _Heath…! Heath, pull, you can do it -_

"I'm trying, God help me, Mama, I'm trying -"

He pulled as hard as he could, but he was no longer making any headway. His strength was gone. The ferry had made up her mind; she was going down with the flood, and one by one, her tethers broke. The mountain was steadily pouring into the river; the river was narrowing, deepening, speeding up, and sending a whole hillside of timber and rocks right at him. A giant, uprooted pine tree raced toward him with the speed of a stagecoach. Without a second thought, Heath threw himself off the boat toward the shore, wrapping an arm and a leg desperately around one of the guide ropes. The tree slammed into the ferry, bearing it onward and reducing it to splinters on the rocks twenty yards further downstream.

More trees and debris slashed through what remained of the ferry cables. Heath managed to keep a hand on one end of the line; he submerged again and hurtled downstream, stopping only when he fetched up against a boulder with enough impact that he saw stars. The current held him there, temporarily out of the path of the debris flow, but pummeling him against the granite like a horseshoe on a smithy's anvil.

Stunned, he was having trouble keeping his head up or his eyes open; the cold of the water seemed to flow right through him now as if his body had become insubstantial. He suspected the only reason he still had a grip on the rope was that he was shivering so badly he could no longer relax the muscles in his arms.

His gaze wandered over the river valley that surrounded him. The roaring maelstrom went on, but everything seemed so quiet all of a sudden. The mountain fell, and kept falling. The river rose, and kept rising. He had the rope in his hand. He was so much closer to shore, and safety, than he had been - but he could not make it the rest of the way.

 _Heath…! Heath, hold on…_

He squinted toward the south bank of the river. His brow furrowed as he tried to make out the shapes he saw moving on the shore.

 _Nox –?_

Even blurry as he was, he recognized her.

He remembered Hannah saying she was frightened, at first, when he returned to her in Strawberry with Nox. She had believed Ilsa and Peter were dead, and she wondered if the mare was a death spirit, a reaper spirit come to escort her boy's soul out of this life.

 _Maybe Hannah was right after all. Is that why you're here, Nox? I ain't goin' with you, then, no, not yet -_

The mountain fell, and the river rose. He did not want to see the mountain falling anymore, so he kept his eyes on Nox, and the slim blond woman who now stood beside her.

 _Heath…!_

"Mama, if that's you, you're gonna have to wait," he mumbled. "I ain't dead yet, and I gotta – I gotta get back to my girl, she needs me –"

But he had no idea how. He was so tired.

 _Heath…! Heath, can you hear me…?_

"Yeah – yeah, I can hear ya…" He managed to get an arm up to wipe his eyes, and tried to shake some sense back into his head. Sound and fury came abruptly raging back into the world around him, and for a second he regretted making the effort to wake himself up. "I can –I can hear -"

 _Hear **who**?_

Blearily he focused his attention again on the riverbank. More people, more horses.

"Heath! Hold on! We're going to pull you the rest of the way!"

"Rivka…?" Heath tried to push himself away from the rock, then immediately halted in the attempt, as he could feel the grasping, avid current wanting to pry him loose and send him the way of the rest of the forest. He fell back against the boulder, holding to that one shred of stability available to him.

He thought he saw someone making his way down to the water's edge, maybe trying to come up even to where he was. _Was that Jed? Then that must have been Ilsa, right?_ Before he could be certain, he was back underwater again, ducking to avoid several mining timbers that came ricocheting off the rocks.

Help was coming. He just had to hold on, do what he could. He remembered the feel of the rope in his hand, when Malila fell. He knew then, as he did now, his strength would give out eventually. Like this river, these mountains, that implacable force was eternal, and he was not. It was a truth, but there was no sense in feeling hopeless. Win or lose, he would rest eventually.

And so he reminded himself that this was not eternity; it was a single battle, and he intended to win this one. He could not save himself alone, but he could hope, and help was coming. He did not need to hold on forever. He just needed to hold on long enough.

"Tie the rope around you! Heath -! Can you do that?"

He nodded sluggishly. Just that simple response seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort. He was cold, clumsy, and shaking convulsively; he was terrified out of his wits; but he was not about to give up. Slowly, carefully, he moved the rope around his waist, brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he tried to get his muscles to do as they were told. It seemed to take him forever. He managed an unlovely bowline –

"Heath – **_jump_** –!"

That was Jed, the raw urgency of his shout cutting through the god-awful bedlam all around him.

The mountain had truly arrived. It had poured into the river, filling it up. Now it turned his way, a rising wall of mud and trees and rocks driving the water inexorably ahead. The river surged upward in a towering rage, foaming and writhing as if she intended to do battle with the invader.

Heath looked up – for one brief second – and then he jumped, throwing himself as far toward the shore as he could.

Then came crashing darkness; the angry chaos of mud and gravel; splintering trees; the icy river; and not enough air.

Rock, and water, and cold, and dark. Stillness. Finally, blessedly, stillness.


	109. Chapter 108 - Footsteps

_The voice of thy thunder was in the heaven: the lightnings lightened the world: the earth trembled and shook.  
_ _Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known._

 _Psalm 77:18-19_

* * *

 ** _Sonora-Vallecito Road, California, Dawn, January 1, 1875_**

The cloaked riders rode at a flat-out gallop, heading north out of Sonora through the patchy fog and ground water of the storm overnight. Horses and riders alike were mud-painted to a uniform gray-brown hue, nearly invisible but for the beat of their hooves on the wet ground. Wraithlike, they raced on into the gray mist of the forested hills and vanished from view.

* * *

 _ **Previous evening, Village of Sutamasina, December 31, 1874** _

Jed had taken it upon himself to ride down to Sutamasina to share with Rivka and Hannah what he had just learned about the attack on Marshal Smith. He let them know that Jarrod and Nick Barkley had left Sonora almost immediately: one to ride to John in Sacramento, and one to the ranch to bring Victoria to her husband.

As Jed expected, Rivka and Hannah wanted to hitch up a wagon to go to Heath immediately. Minutes after Jed arrived with his news, however, a powerful rainstorm came rolling in from the southeast, and he convinced the women to delay until it eased. The downpour drove them to wait indoors; it severely tested the new shingles on the barn roof; and it rapidly filled the rain catchers and filtered into the cisterns Heath had been able to set up around the village. Jed and the two women watched through the open barn door as a group of celebrating children ran splashing through the puddles, wanting a few more minutes of play before the adults could herd them off to bed.

A wet, dirty, melon-sized ball, made of tightly wound reeds and buckskin, flew through the rain and bounced off the lintel where Jed was leaning, relaxed and thoughtful. He smiled and picked it up, looking out at the children to see to whom to throw it back. A good ways off, Kono jumped up and down and waved his hands at the deputy.

"They've been playing _wi'tupo,_ " Rivka explained. "It's a bit like the football they play in the boy's schools in England. The children have been making up their own rules, though, and today, instead of goalposts, they have been aiming for that big basket Kono is pointing to over there. I think he wants you to give it a try."

Jed hefted the ball and squinted out into the rainy night. "Way over there, huh. Throw it in the basket?" The brown, battered container was about forty yards distant, and barely visible in the gloom.

"Yup."

"OK - here goes - head's up, Kono - !" He hefted the lumpy sphere once more to get the weight of it, and then threw it in a high trajectory out into the dark. There was silence, then the sharp _thwack_ of the ball landing smartly in the basket. Kono whooped and immediately turned to collect on a bet with one of his friends.

Hannah laughed softly. "They surely do love to gamble, these folks." Jed turned back to them, grinning at Kono's enthusiasm. Hannah studied him thoughtfully. Aware of her scrutiny, he met her steady gaze and waited.

Rivka, too, sensed Hannah's focus, and turned to listen.

"You another one sired by Tom Barkley in his travels, Jed?" Hannah asked bluntly.

Rivka gasped quietly, but her surprise was short-lived. Heretofore, that thought had not even crossed her mind. As soon as Hannah spoke the words, though… _Yes, of course, I see what she means._

Jed took Hannah's directness with good humor. He gave half a smile and pursed his lips as he considered how to answer. "Don't rightly know, ma'am. It's possible." He shrugged slightly. "Raul told me he wondered the same thing, when I was a baby, but he never spoke about it, out of his respect for Victoria. Tom Barkley for sure wasn't my _father,_ though. Hiram Brown was my father, and Raul, after my parents passed."

"You speak the truth, child." Hannah tipped her head to the side, her gaze approving and affectionate. "Your birth mother – she was Negro? Was she a runaway?"

"My mama thought so, but no one knew."

"Back when you were born, Jed, if that _was_ known, Raul woulda been obliged to send her back to whoever she ran from, and you along with her. It was the law."

"Raul never sent anyone back," Jed said quietly, but with some pride. "He made a point of **_not_** knowing." He looked seriously at Hannah. "And believe me, ma'am, there ain't a day goes by that I ain't thankful for that, and for my parents. I coulda ended up – well -" He stopped, hesitant to elaborate.

"I know, child. Oh yes, I do." She looked at Rivka. "We know, and so does Heath." She went silent for a breath or two, her eyes distant. Then she straightened up and turned back to Jed. "So Jarrod settled on you to be the one to go find Heath on the other side of the mountains." Jed nodded. "And you stayed by him and helped him get home. Heath tried to shake you, I bet."

"Yes ma'am."

"And he couldn't?"

"No ma'am."

He paused after this bit of bravado and smiled at Hannah sidelong in a way that made Rivka's breath catch with recognition and yearning.

"Well..." he modified contritely, "he didn't try very hard."

"Good," Hannah pronounced. "Glad he didn't. Glad to hear he's using some of the good sense he was born with." She glanced at Rivka. "How's he doin' up there, Jed, in the lockup?"

"Jumpy. Nervous, pacing, but doing OK. Raul gets him, I think. Heath is torn up about John - I mean, about Marshal Smith. I 'spect Raul will be able to set him a little straight on that account."

Rivka nodded. "He's going to feel responsible for whatever has happened." She was feeling a need to start pacing herself. "I hope John's alright."

* * *

Around midnight, the storm had moved on northward, soaking the foothills with rain as it went. Husu and Haja came to the gate as Jed prepared the wagon for Hannah and Rivka to make the short ride up to Sonora. He turned, one hand on his sidearm, as he heard the urgent sound of a horse approaching at a dead run. He hurried out to meet him as soon as he recognized the rider.

"Sean! What is it?"

Sean Thomas pulled up at the gate, breathless and intense. "Bunch of gunmen hit the marshal's office, Jed. Montana's banged up, but he's OK, he's OK," he hurried to reassure the alarmed deputy. "Doc Robinson brought him home. But they took Barkley, Jed. They busted in and they just _took_ him. Right outta our jail! Who -?"

Jed was boiling up into a quiet fury. "Governor's still got enough guns on his private payroll to hit us here **_and_** in Sacramento." Fists clenched, he narrowed his eyes and stared to the north, picturing the hills invisible in the dark, and thinking, thinking.

"There was at least ten of 'em busted in. No shots fired. Ten horses, and a lorry, so two drivers probably. I tracked them out far enough to see they were taking the Vallecito road and pushing to make the ferry. Then the rain really moved in. There ain't no other way for 'em to go. Roberts is covering the office and going back and forth to the wire station, looking for any more information. He sent a message to Sawyer and my brother Roman to scout for' em north of the river, 'cause they should be back in Jubilee by now. So I rode down here fast as I could to report."

Jed nodded, scowling. "You did good, Sean." He turned to Rivka and Hannah, who were standing with Husu and Haja in shocked silence. "Let's get back to town. I'll bring you to the cabin at my place, it's right by Raul's house. I have to –" He looked sick with worry. "I have to see to Raul, make sure he's alright. Then we gotta figure how to get Heath back."

Jed wanted to ride out after those men himself, that very minute, and gun them all down. He took a deep breath and tried to relax his clenched fists. _Not so fast, Jed. Think. You're way outnumbered. Where are they going? Maybe better to call for help to catch 'em at the other end? But what's gonna happen to Heath in the meantime?_

Deep in thought, he helped the women up into the wagon, then jumped up on his mare and turned her head east to Sonora. Husu and Haja watched them disappear into the dark.

"Yayali isn't all the way dead yet," Husu murmured.

"Yayali is never all the way dead, Husu. Never. People of good spirit will always have to stand guard and be watchful."

"Always," Husu agreed sadly. "But Me'weh will get free. He will find a way back."

* * *

 _ **Sonora Road, California, Dawn, January 1, 1875**_

They all managed a few hours of anxious sleep at the little cabin. In an unspoken, collective effort to give their fear-burdened minds a rest, Rivka and Hannah took the opportunity to visit with Moshe, Ilsa, and Peter, and to marvel over baby Tikva. She was so tiny, so new - and yet so powerfully **_alive_**. Rivka held her, mesmerized. Hannah put a gentle arm around Rivka's shoulders.

"Hope. Her name means hope," Rivka murmured, watching the baby's eyes follow some dream image behind her pale closed lids.

"Hope. That is surely what brought this little family back together in the wilderness." Hannah nodded as if in rhythm with a melody only she could hear. "And so must we carry our own hope, child. Hold it close."

Moments later, Jed arrived back to the cabin. They met him at the porch as he dismounted.

"Wire from Folsom," he reported with no preamble. "Heath escaped somewhere en route to the prison. John and the Barkleys intercepted the lorry as it reached Folsom. Heath was gone, and the drivers didn't even know it. They had sent their gunmen home somewhere north of the river, so Heath probably got loose after that." He paused, thinking about the route the lorry would have taken, and the weather – but he had more to relate. "The other good news: John got the Governor's signature on the amnesty, so Heath and Teleli are in the clear." He smiled grimly, sharing the obvious relief of the group. "Problem is," he went on, "Heath doesn't know that. So where would he go? I gotta think he'd still try to get here, even if he thought he had to hide."

Rivka was nodding in agreement. "If Heath _was_ heading back here, he would probably have to use the crossing at Parrot's," Rivka said. "In this weather, there may not be **_any_** safe place to cross, but that would be his best chance."

"You're right about that," Jed concurred. "He might look for something off trail, just in case they were coming after him, but I bet the Stanislaus is flooding pretty good by now." He frowned as he pictured the evidence of brutal violence he had seen in Raul's office and the lockup. "Here's the other thing. Heath could be hurt bad. And he's got nothing. No shoes, no coat – I found it all dumped by the sidewalk."

"Oh Lord," Hannah whispered. She heard Rivka gasp, felt her take her hand and grip it tightly.

"You gotta go out after him," she suddenly said to Rivka, her voice sounding loud, too loud in her own ears. The gray, misty world around her had taken on a crystalline clarity that was painful to her eyes. Hannah felt the ground shaking – no, **_shuddering_** – under her feet. She sucked in a ragged breath; her heart was pounding in her very bones. She turned to Jed. "His brothers are too far away. You gotta go out after him. You can get there faster than me. You both gotta go. **_Now_**. Go. As fast as you can. Go. Go. Go."

Wide-eyed, Ilsa had followed every word. Tears of relief had filled her eyes at the news Heath was at least free, and that he and Teleli could finally come home. But Hannah's words shook her to the core. She and her husband had made the mistake once of not listening to Hannah; she would not let it happen again. A glance at Peter told Ilsa he felt the same. She moved to gather her baby from Rivka's arms.

"Go as fast as you can," she said. "Hannah knows." She looked at Jed to make sure he was listening, then she turned back to Rivka. "Take Nox. Go."


	110. Chapter 109 - Embers

_I heard them in their sadness say,  
"The earth rebukes the thought of God;  
We are but embers wrapped in clay  
A little nobler than the sod."_

 _But I have touched the lips of clay,  
Mother, thy rudest sod to me  
Is thrilled with fire of hidden day,  
And haunted by all mystery._

 _A.E., "Dust"_

* * *

 ** _Sonora-Vallecito Road, California, Dawn, January 1, 1875_**

 _Go. Go. Go._

Rivka could feel the exigent echo of Hannah's words as she rode. It urged her onward. It called for speed and pushed the pace, in rhythm with the pounding of Rivka's heart. An image suddenly came to her of the fiery drummers of the ancient dragon boats of China, about which she had read as a young girl. She had pictured them, even then, as the heart of the boat: riding the bow, pounding out the pace, calling and exhorting their rowers in their race across the water.

 _Go. Go. Go._

Her own heart chanted now with everything she had.

 _Hold on, Heath, wherever you are – don't let go – I love you, I love you, I love you -_

Rivka was a competent rider. She enjoyed it enormously, she had a natural and justified confidence in her physical abilities, and she had a willingness to learn everything Heath could teach her. She had, however, only ridden Nox once before, and that was sitting double with Audra on a short circuit around the pasture during Thanksgiving. She was a little apprehensive as she mounted the tall mare for what promised to be a pell-mell gallop into wet, messy, and possibly hazardous terrain.

Nox herself quickly dispelled Rivka's worry. Huge and fast though she was, her gait and responsiveness were everything Audra had extolled. Further, Nox seemed as driven and focused on their mission as were the riders themselves. Even Jed's mare, Aquila, was responding to the tide of energy that carried them north into the hills.

 _Go. Go. Go._

Nox chose their path and picked up her pace. Rivka felt the drumbeat of the hooves, of her own heart, of Hannah's words; she thought of dragons as she and Nox flew over the wet, dark landscape.

* * *

 _ **Parrot's Ferry Crossing, North Fork Stanislaus River, January 1, 1875**_

A moaning, rumbling, cracking sound reached them from the mist-wrapped mountains ahead, growing louder and closer every minute. Gamely, the lathered horses kept on, though every gut instinct of both the horses and their riders was screaming to flee in the other direction.

They reined in abruptly as they rounded the last bend and took in an incomprehensible sight. The mountainside was in motion; solid land was flowing like a river and howling in protest at the wrongness of it all.

"Dear God," Jed managed. "That's gotta be…gotta be a quarter mile wide…?"

Beside him, Rivka let out a gasp that sounded more like a sob. Taking in a ragged breath, she spoke a plea in a language Jed did not understand, though he needed no translation.

"Where is he?" They searched the forest with their eyes, both feeling they were losing precious time doing so, but unsure how else to proceed. They appeared to be relatively safe on this side of the river, despite the apocalypse happening before their eyes. The foothills on their side of the river had gentler, more stable slopes. The floodwaters of the Stanislaus might in the extreme reach their current position, but the deep, broad grade of the south bank that descended before them to the river's edge would contain and guide the massive landslide away from them and funnel the destruction downstream.

 _Heath, where are you, where are you?_ Rivka strained to see past the wispy fog of the ridges above the far shore, hoping to glimpse him there. _He has to be there. If he tried to make the crossing, he would be dead. He must have retreated to higher ground, up away from the river, he **must** have – but how will we get to him over there? How will we find him? _

She looked desperately at Jed, praying he had some other hopeful idea. He was frowning, intent, and thinking hard, but she could see he was struggling with the same urgent questions.

Trembling, Aquila snorted, flaring her nostrils and showing the whites of her eyes. She wanted to panic and run. She took her lead from Nox, however, and Jed's steady hand, and held her ground. Nox, too, was trembling and restless, though not from her desire to flee. She seemed not to see the falling of the mountain. Her entire focus was on the river, and she wanted to keep moving forward. She danced in place and tugged at the reins in Rivka's gloved hand.

Then she tugged again, hard, hard enough to pull Rivka off balance.

"Nox -!" Rivka cried, grabbing a handful of black mane to steady herself. "Nox, what are –?"

Nox whinnied and lunged once, toward the river. Her head was high, and she whuffed at the air, eyes and ears directed at the raging rapids below. Rivka tore her eyes away from the destruction of the collapsing north bank. She followed Nox' gaze – and gasped, pointing.

"Jed, there he is – do you see him – on the ferry –"

No more words were needed. They raced forward. Jed dismounted well back from the shore of the rising river, running first to secure the ropes Heath was using to pull the ferry across, and then trying to find an angle to get as close to him as possible to pull him to shore. Rivka remained mounted with the spare ropes on her saddle. Nox' height gave Rivka a better angle to see Heath as she called directions to Jed, who was struggling through more and more mud and debris. Jed was glancing anxiously at the approaching landslide as he strained to spot Heath in the chaos of waves and debris.

Rivka watched Heath. She watched him fight for every inch, fight to get his head back above water, fight to keep his balance as the flood battered him and the old ferry. She saw a massive wave knock him flat to the deck when the mountain began to fall into the river. She bit back a cry – she thought he was gone – but he managed to stay on board –

"Heath…! Heath, pull, you can do it - !"

The next moment he had thrown himself free of the ferry, grabbing onto one of the guide ropes before he was swept on with the rapids. She watched in horror as the rock and debris obliterated the boat and all the remaining crossing cables. Riding into the edge of the river, she called to Jed to move further downstream, her eyes frantically searching the churning, opaque water.

 _There he is, oh thank God, there he is -_ "Jed! He still has one of the ropes –!"

Heath was stunned and sluggish now, though he was at least responding. He was still trying to keep his head up, but his eyes were closing, and he seemed to be losing his hold on the rock that had stopped him from washing away downstream.

"- can you hear me? Hold on – we're going to pull you the rest of the way -!"

Slowly, too slowly, Heath managed to tie the rope around himself. The current was slowing. It was _thickening_ ; it was changing inexorably from water to mud, becoming a liquid landmass that would scrape everything in its path clean down to bedrock. Jed hollered for Heath to jump, hauling in the rope as he did. Heath did, and was immediately lost to their view. Jed shouted for him, staggering as the mud began to rise above his knees and then up to his hips. The line was trapped somewhere – or Heath was – and pull as he might, Jed got no movement. He roared at the river. He hauled on the line with tears on his face, but the rope would come no further, and he could not see Heath anywhere.

"I have to go in after him!" he turned to shout to Rivka over the din of the flood, but before he could get the words out, Rivka had ridden up beside him.

"Get on!"

Nox spotted Heath first, that was no surprise. Rivka followed her lead and gave thanks in her heart for the horse, because even with Nox' help, all Rivka could see of Heath was one muddy, easily-missed hand and part of an arm, holding on to the edge of a boulder that would soon itself be submerged in the rising mud and water. She kept her eyes on that hand as she urged Nox forward and brought Jed to the spot. The hand was bloody and bruised, and even as she watched, the ferocious, white-knuckled grip weakened and began to slip.

Nox, too, began to stagger. She braced herself against the crushing flood as Rivka secured one of the ropes to the saddle and handed the other end off to Jed, who tied it around himself.

Jed was watching that hand too. "If I can't come up to yell, I'll just yank on the rope and you and Nox pull us out, got it?" Rivka nodded. _Go. Go. Go._

"Hang on, hang on, hang on, old man," Jed was muttering; he took a few deep breaths, and then he jumped in.

A few frantic yanks on the rope was all she got. Rivka yelled to Nox, and the big black set about getting them all back to shore, laboring chest deep through the brutal current. Finally back on solid ground, she stopped at the top of the bank with her head down, blowing and shaking with fatigue.

Rivka jumped off and ran back to where the two men lay. Jed was spitting mud and gravel, and bleeding from several good-sized gashes.

"He was stuck under a _tree_ ," he hacked. "A goddamn busted-up **_tree_**. It tried to rip me apart under there." He rolled toward Heath and started to sit up. "Heath. Hey." He reached for Heath's shoulder, and started to look alarmed when he got no response. He glanced up as Rivka reached them. "He's alive, I know he is. I felt him grab onto me." He shook him again, harder. "Hey, _Heath_!"

"Easy, easy, Jed, let me see."

 _Don't let go. I love you. I love you._

Feeling like an observer in her own body, Rivka methodically rolled Heath to his side and cleared any debris and water from his mouth. As she did so, she performed a cursory exam for broken bones, bleeding, or an injured spine. She identified no immediately life-threatening injuries. Returning him to lie on his back, she determined that he was not breathing; and so, as she had been taught by her mother and innumerable midwives over the years, Rivka brought her mouth to his and set about breathing for him.

Jed sat back on his heels and watched, amazed and heedless for the moment of his own injuries.

Rivka knew that such a method of reanimation was disdained by much of the established medical world. The physical contact alone was considered undignified. There persisted a belief that one's expired air was noxious and unfit to be breathed into another's lungs. Further, there was a discomfort with the idea of reanimation. Perhaps those who appeared dead should remain so. God's Will, was it not?

Rivka preferred the midwives' approach to such things. Hands-on. She would do the best she could with her undignified God-given mind and her unseemly God-given education and ability, and _then_ she would see about God's will.

 _Don't let go. I love you._

She looked down at the boy she loved, and her dispassionate spectator's distance abruptly vanished. All the pain and the terror came pouring in. She continued her efforts; she brought her mouth to his again, and again; but now she was crying as she ran her hands over his cold, wet body; she sobbed and held him and begged him not to leave her.

 _Don't let go. Breathe. Please. Breathe._

She bent to his mouth once more, praying, hoping, loving him. _Don't let go._ She felt him move. His arms came around her to pull her close. The breath they shared became a long, slow kiss - so long, and slow, and sweet, in fact, that Jed began to fidget and blush.

Jed cleared his throat. Heath's eyes cracked open and he grinned weakly at Rivka.

"Hey, darlin'."

"Hey."

"Marry me, please, Rivka -?"

"Yes, love."

"Today?"

"As soon as you can stand up."

"OK," he said, nodding faintly. His thoughts and his words were blurry. "OK. Tomorrow then." He tried half-heartedly to look around. "So where'd Ilsa go, and why did you let her come along in the first place?"

"Ilsa? She didn't come. She's at home, with Peter and Moshe and the baby."

"But I thought – thought I saw her." Heath's brow furrowed in puzzlement, but then he shrugged. "Guess that was my Mama after all. Lookin' out for me until y'all got here." He smiled at that, but he was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. He slid his double vision over to Jed and they shared a tired grin.

"Thanks, Jed."

"Don't mention it."

"Damn glad it wasn't _you_ I was holdin' when I woke up."

"You an' me both, old man."


	111. Chapter 110 - Insight

_It would be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it...Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy—the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our best love._

 _George Eliot, "Adam Bede"_

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 3, 1875_**

He woke slowly, aware that he had been drifting in and out for a few days, but fuzzy on most other details. He took a deep breath and focused on the warm, musty smell of earth and charcoal and animal hides that enveloped him.

 _Moss, acorns, so familiar…_

Eyes still closed, cautiously, he shifted, aiming to scout out the siege lines of his injuries. It did not take much to get a clear message back: he would not be dancing anytime soon. He went still again, and silent, instinctively seeking to lay low until his head was clearer.

 _Watch and wait. Listen._

He certainly was not 'clear', not yet, but he sensed no immediate threat. It was 2:20 in the morning. Rain was falling outside, and otherwise the world was quiet. He dozed. For a good long stretch, he let himself be still in the soft cradle of that familiar smell, and appreciated the fact that he was warm, dry, and not drowning under a mountain of mud and trees and water.

When he woke again, the rain had stopped. It was mid-morning now. Beyond the darkness of his closed lids, he could hear the sounds of the village outside, and a quiet Miwok voice closer by, murmuring in the roundhouse where he lay.

 _Sutamasina_.

He was afraid to open his eyes. He knew why, of course, and knew it was irrational, but that did not make it very much easier. He was afraid he would open his eyes and see nothing. The memory made his mouth go dry and his heart race.

 _Don't be a fool, Heath. Best way to make that ghost go away is to walk right through it._

He set his jaw and opened his eyes. Of course, he could see just fine – but that did not stop him from breathing a sigh of relief nonetheless. He swallowed a sound of discomfort as he tried to move. Every bone and muscle in his body felt about as stiff and battered as a set of old horseshoes.

"Me'weh! Me'weh, you're awake!" Malila slipped away from her uncle Istu, who was in the process of shepherding her and Kono outside for lessons. She pounced on Heath, eliciting a groan of pain he could not hide at all, and hugged him ferociously. He hugged her back as best he could.

"Hey, little one. Hey. I missed you."

She sat on his chest and patted his cheek. "Me'weh. You escaped Yayali. You came back. I knew you would."

"I had help."

"I know. Husu has told us the stories every night. How Yayali was so big your father John and _Osa Keleli_ and your brothers had to travel almost to the ocean to kill Yayali's head. How Yayali trapped you in his fist and was going to squeeze you until you told him where he could find Teleli." Malila was warming to her report. She grew even more animated, gesturing with her arms as she recounted Husu's storytelling. "- and then you became invisible, and escaped right out of Yayali's fist during the rainstorm, but you were alone and hurt and he was almost going to swallow you up. But Hannah the brown-skinned woman had come to heal Rivka, so Rivka could ride the giant flying horse, and so she and _Hi-li-cha_ could save you from being crushed under Yayali's body up in the hills!" She stopped to catch her breath. "And – and - I am happy you came back." She regarded him seriously. "You are not blind now, are you?" He shook his head no. "That is good." She smiled. "Haja says that Yayali is never all the way dead. She says we always have to stand watch, all of us. I am glad you can see again, Me'weh."

"Me too, little one," Heath managed. His head was spinning from her rapid-fire story. He was trying to sort through all of his questions –

 _Who is Hi-li-cha? And who in the world is Osa Keleli?_

 _My father? John?_

 _John – is he OK? Where is he?_

This train of thought came to an abrupt halt, however, when he focused again on Malila's words.

 _Yayali. Yayali is never all the way dead._

His breath caught with sudden alarm. His head was clear now, yes - crystal clear, in fact. Grimacing, he started trying to get up.

"Me'weh, what is wrong?"

Heath could see the gunmen clear as day in his memory, ruthless and efficient as they disabled Marshal Montana and came on after him. Heath's recall – at least up until the point he was beaten senseless - was just as detailed and vivid as Jarrod suspected it was. He could describe each of those gunmen. He could remember what they wore; what they smelled like; which boot or fist or rifle stock inflicted which injury. Heath would be glad for that recall, if the time ever came to bring them to justice. Right now, though, what it allowed him was a sickeningly clear vision of what those men would do when they came into this village looking for him.

He had to get out of there.

"Me'weh?"

"Yayali." His voice was rough with pain and urgent worry. He lifted Malila gently off his chest and set her bare feet on the floor of the roundhouse. "Yayali is what's wrong, little one, and I can't stay here. I can't be here and put you all in danger."

He managed to get to his hands and knees, and as Malila ran outside, he scanned the room for something to help him stand up the rest of the way. Getting on his feet was not going to be easy. It occurred to him in passing that this was one disadvantage of sleeping so close to the ground.

 _Those high-falutin' beds-on-legs at the Barkley house at least give a man a head start, once he gets his feet on the ground._

He got an arm around one of the cedar uprights that supported the low roof of the roundhouse, and used it to pull himself up. He tipped his head back to look at the timbering and the cedar shakes that covered the roof. _Nice construction_ , he thought, a _nd it smells good – damn, I'm sore_ – He swayed, and would have fallen, were it not for the pole to which he was so desperately clinging. He rested his head against the aromatic wood and gave serious thought to lying back down. _Maybe I should just rest a minute, and try this again - ?_

He shook his head angrily. "No, goddammit, I can't stay here," he growled at himself. "I can't bring those men back here on these people. I have to – I have to go -" His entire focus had narrowed down to that one imperative. They were coming – those men – he was sure of it, and he could not lead them here to gun down these defenseless people. He would not let that happen. Not again. Not again.

 _What about Rivka?_

 _She's not safe either._

Adult voices now were coming in to the roundhouse and rushing to his side. He fought them off, warning them even as he struggled to reach the open door.

"Let me go – please, it's not safe, I have to leave -"

"No, Heath, no, you don't."

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. They steadied him and kept him from falling, even as they pushed him back toward the palette on which he had been sleeping.

"No. I can't be here. They'll come back. It's -" He wasn't strong enough. He couldn't get out, he couldn't even stay on his feet. The hands pushed him back down and would not let him up, though he was fighting as hard as he could. "It's not safe. Please – let me go -"

He suddenly felt he was suffocating.

Something else had him now. Heath knew it, the difference being he understood, now, **_what_ **it was. He stopped struggling. He went still and focused on his breathing, bracing himself to ride out the wave of panic until it passed.

"Heath, you're safe. We're all safe. They're not coming back. You don't have to go away."

 _Jarrod_. There was another difference. He felt his brother's hands steady on his shoulders. He heard in his voice the depth and history of what his brother understood, and the truth of his words. Heath took a shaky breath and, with an effort, he managed not to cry. He looked up at eyes the same color as his, and came up with a bit of a smile instead.

"Hey, big brother."

"Hey yourself."

"You're tellin' me I'm kickin' up a big ol' fuss for nothin', is that right?"

"That's what I'm telling you. Amnesty for you and Teleli, signed and sealed."

Jarrod was certain what he had just glimpsed went beyond a fear of another attack from the Governor's gunmen. He would lay money it had to do with that long-ago attack on Heath's family, but he was not privy to the details of that event. As Hannah had said, that was Heath's story to share, or not, as he chose. Jarrod thought he had the gist of it, though, and so he had spoken to that. He was glad to see that other fear dissipate so quickly.

Heath was nodding. "Signed and sealed. Fair enough. I'll stop fussin'."

"No other questions? None?"

"Nah," Heath mumbled, letting his head fall back on the palette of deerskins, though he held Jarrod's worried gaze. "I feel terrible. I feel like I been run over by a landslide." He groaned quietly as he tried to find a more comfortable position. Finally, he relented to Jarrod's questioning look.

"It's over, Jarrod? Really?"

Jarrod nodded, and smiled at the obvious and profound relief that lit up Heath's expression. He reached out to help him up to a sitting position.

"Tell me about John?" Heath asked quietly.

"I'll tell you about John and what happened in Sacramento, and you tell me about Teleli. He's got some family out there anxious for news, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes, I know." Heath felt the rising of a great joy in his spirit, a joy of homecoming. He smiled, calling up the sounds of ocean and palm tree from his memory. "You should contact Dr. Hadassah Levi in San Diego. Tell her it is time to send her apprentice back to his own home and his family."


	112. Chapter 111 - Ready

_If we will be quiet and ready enough , we shall find compensation in every disappointment._

 _Henry_ _David Thoreau_

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, January 4, 1875_**

Unable to muster the energy to get back up on his feet, Heath just sat and watched Jarrod walk to the door of the roundhouse, open it, and step outside. As he crossed the threshold, his silhouette was limned by a blaze of morning sunshine so bright he seemed to vanish into it. Heath heard him speaking to Haja, and as the door closed behind his brother, he could hear the news of Teleli already spreading outward into the village. Miwok voices – men, women, and children – called out to each other in tones of relief, pride and celebration that needed no translation.

Inside the roundhouse, it was dim and hushed, lit only by the slivers of sunlight that found entry here and there along the curved walls of cedar bark. Alone for this brief moment, Heath felt strangely at rest, suspended in time. Dust floated silently around him, sparkling and creating substance and movement where it drifted through the insubstantial beams of light.

 _Keep still. Keep still and listen._

 _Yayali_ _is never all the way dead_.

Heath was a realistic man. His embattled childhood had developed in him a finely-tuned awareness of danger, but what helped him survive was his willingness to accept what realities he faced, and take action accordingly.

He had come, therefore, to accept this humbling fact: the madness that had very nearly obliterated him was a part of who he was, and would remain so, possibly for good and ever. He was learning that it did not have to _define_ him, however, and he had begun to consider that it might contain some unexpected, hidden strengths. Regardless, he saw no choice but to step up and manage it somehow. Clearly, if left unmanaged, his unbalanced, fugitive state of mind would become as destructive and as lethal as any of the external enemies they had faced.

It was quiet along the front lines now, both internal and external. The soldier in Heath knew not to trust that kind of quiet. Skirmishes had been won, and new ground had been taken, but Yayali is never all the way dead. Now was the time to dig in and fortify. It was time to lay in supplies and gather strength. Just as the Miwok of Sutamasina could not cease to be vigilant in defense of their autonomy and their newborn village, neither could Heath let his guard down, because the madness would come back, one way or another.

 _Might not be as bad,_ Teleli had said. _Sometimes I would still have to leave. Sometimes. Less and less. I would go home now, if I could._

 _Well, Teleli could come home now,_ Heath thought with a feeling of fierce joy. _As for me…Yayali might not ever be all the way dead - but neither am I._

Heath reckoned he at least had an angle on the problem now, thanks in part to Teleli's hard-won experience. He had a better sense of the demon's size and reach; he could spot his tells; and Heath had a wealth of love and support in his corner. Now he had fighting chance to come home; to be a part of a family; to be a husband, and a father.

He remembered Jarrod's hand on his shoulder as they looked up at the rise above the north pasture, picturing the home Heath wanted to build for Rivka. Picturing _hope_.

That hopeful future - _any_ future - had vanished from his sight through all these weeks of winter, and Heath felt he had passed through lifetimes of darkness since that day with his brother. He could feel it again now, though. He could **_see_** it: life and hope, rising up green out of mud and ashes and grief.

Heath closed his eyes. He heard Jarrod speaking again outside, and footsteps returning. In the dark, he remembered that other day he sat alone, a lost child in Sutamasina, listening and wondering what his fate would be.

Now, more voices were approaching, and with them came a memory, tagging along like an unsettled ghost.

 _Why do you have a White child in your village?_

 _We can't take him with us._

Eyes still closed, Heath let it come. He felt all the fear and abandonment and despair of that long-ago moment; he saw the grieving child he had been, and his nascent belief that such was the fate he deserved. He let it all crash over him like a wave. He let it come, and then he let it roll away.

Outside, he could hear Rivka arriving at a run, laughing and calling to Hannah to hurry.

 _Tom Barkley,_ Heath thought _, you made mistakes you had to live with, and I figure you had your own burdens to bear. I don't really wish it had gone differently with you and me. I have so much to be grateful for. I reckon I gained as much from your failures as I have from your successes. Just look at this girl who's willing to be my wife._ _Different trials, different treasures._ _Crossed a few rough hills along the way, but I wouldn't take nothin' for my journey now_.

He heard Hannah singing.

 _Keep your eye on the prize._

Smiling, Heath opened his eyes. Sunlight flooded in as the door swung open. Rivka rushed to his side, followed by Hannah and Jarrod, and then Haja, who shooed away a group of eager children wanting to welcome Me'weh back to the village.

Jarrod was studying him intently as he walked in, and Heath had the distinct impression they were sharing the same memory. He could see how much pain it was causing his brother. He looked up at him, wanting to ease his mind.

"You came back, Jarrod, just like you said you would."

Jarrod shook his head. "Too little, too late -"

Heath interrupted him, as he felt Rivka's arms come around him. "Maybe. But just look at where we are now, big brother." He gave Jarrod a warm smile before he turned to pull Rivka into a long, wordless embrace.

Eventually Heath could bring himself to let go so he could sit back and look at her.

"How are you? You ok?" He studied her face, and though he kept his tone light, his eyes were intense and full of concern.

She met his gaze warmly and with a gentle smile, understanding his unspoken message. "I'm fine, cowboy. We're fine. How are you feeling?"

He shook his head with a laugh that was both resigned and exasperated. "Darlin', I'm so busted up it just ain't even worth talkin' about. Just slap a fresh coat 'a paint on me and keep goin'." He was finding it hard to take his eyes off her. "You saved me," he said seriously. "You rode that big horse like a warrior princess right into a landslide and pulled me out, and then you brought me back to life."

"That is true," she agreed, "but I didn't pull you out by myself."

Heath glanced around. "Where is Jed? Is he all right?"

"He needed a little patching up, but now he's off who-knows-where with Rafaela."

"I want to meet that girl," Heath said, grinning. "But first things first. You said you'd marry me."

"I said I'd marry you when you could stand up." She looked him over skeptically.

"I stood up. I _did_. Jarrod's my witness. Jarrod, wasn't I -"

Jarrod held up his hands. "I don't think I want to get in the middle of this. But for the record, Heath, I should clarify that you pulled yourself up on that pole there, and you didn't stay up for very long. I don't know if your negotiations with Dr. Levi included a discussion of such specifics - use of assistance, and duration of standing, for example - but that is why people bring in lawyers for these things."

"I didn't stay up 'cause _you_ were pushing me back down," Heath argued.

"And here you've stayed, apparently. I don't see you bouncing back up to your feet right at the moment, Heath."

"Alright, **_I'll_** show you gettin' up, Jarrod, just gimme a - gimme a minute - "

"No. Stop. All of you. **_No_**. Absolutely **_not_**."

They all turned in surprise.

Haja stood in the center of the roundhouse. Her arms were raised at shoulder height, like a bird of prey that had just landed. She was a small woman, in truth not much bigger than Hannah. At that moment, though, she commanded the space, and instinctively they all went silent, waiting to hear what she had to say to them.

Haja's expression, usually so gentle and humorous, now was intense, focused, and absolutely serious. Her black eyes moved from face to face, full of concern and inviting no rebuttal or argument.

"Marriage? You talk of **_marriage_**?" She seemed incredulous, as if these people she so cared about had just happily announced plans to go jump off a cliff. She looked each one of them in the eye, holding them all equally accountable for what she clearly felt to be colossally bad judgement.

Only Hannah seemed to have any understanding of Haja's meaning, and she began to smile and nod. Jarrod turned to her. "What is it, Hannah? What am I not getting?"

Hannah merely shook her head with a smile and a gesture that said: _I suggest you listen to her._ Jarrod sighed and held his peace. Heath and Rivka looked at each other in puzzlement.

Haja realized then she was going to have to explain herself. Clearly, these brave, kind people were complete fools when it came to matters such as this. She turned to Heath.

"Me'weh," she pronounced. "You are not ready to take a wife. You are not yet ready to rejoin the village, or even your family, much less start a family of your own! You feel the truth of this. I know you do."


	113. Chapter 112 - Translation

_"Me'weh. You are not ready to take a wife. You are not yet ready to rejoin the village, or even your family, much less start a family of your own! You feel the truth of that. I know you do."_

Her words left Heath breathless, wondering whether he had just been mortally wounded or been given a benediction. Confused, he looked up into her lined, earnest face. Her black eyes held his. They were unyielding, but not unkind, and he could see she had spoken from love.

It was simple, what she had said, but it resonated. He had a dizzying sensation that his view of the situation had just been turned sideways and he was about to see things in a very different way.

 _Funny_ , he thought. _She reminds me of John. So many times he sees what I'm trippin' over, layin' right there in front of me. Picks it up, dusts it off, and says hey, Heath, look at this._

"Me'weh, listen. War does not only wound the body. You understand this."

He swallowed, and nodded wordlessly. _Look at this, Heath_.

Haja frowned as she tried to find the right words in English to explain herself. The concept she held in her mind was rooted deeply in her peoples' individual and collective awareness. She was finding it difficult, even in her native tongue, to think of how to describe it in explicit terms; it was like trying to talk about the way solid things always fall to the ground.

Haja turned to Rivka and spoke rapidly in Miwok. Rivka nodded and responded in Miwok with a question, intended, apparently, to clarify Haja's meaning. This dialogue continued back and forth for a few more exchanges until Haja seemed satisfied that Rivka understood her meaning and would translate as needed.

"Haja says, one of the most important parts of this process is that all who participate understand the purpose of it, and are willing and able to fully participate in the ceremony. It is a healing for the individuals and for the villlage as a whole. She just wants me to make sure she is explaining it clearly."

"Wait, wait, hold on," Heath interjected. "You speak _Miwok_? When did that happen?"

Rivka suppressed a grin and shrugged. "I've been here for a month. And I make sure to double-check any vocabulary I get from Husu. He still tries to slip in a few - um - _mistranslations_."

"A month isn't -"

"I guess we all have our inborn talents, cowboy. You can count cards in poker, and hit things you aim at. I pick up languages."

"Hit things -?"

"Shush," she said, with a smile. "Listen to Haja."

Haja's expression had softened, and the mention of Husu had drawn out some of the humor they were accustomed to see in her weathered face, but there was no mistaking the gravity of her message, and the responsibility she felt as both herb shaman and headwoman of her village.

"Teleli, my brother, is coming home. He has been away from us, fighting all these years to survive, to stay free, and to protect us. Fear and violence and being alone - it wounds us in our soul, in our spirit. It brings demons that grab on to the hurt soul and don't let go. Teleli would not bring those demons home to injure or trouble his kin and his village. His heart is not yet free to join with others and step back into life with his family. Neither is yours, Me'weh. You must be made ready."

"Ready -?" Heath felt Rivka put her arm around his shoulders, hugging him lightly as she intermittently helped Haja with a word or a phrase.

"My people have been homeless for so long now, our young ones have no memory of our life as a village, except in the stories Husu has told them all these years. So many of our rituals and sacred practices have fallen away, because we have been on the run, or imprisoned, and dying, always dying.

"Always in our past, when one of us faced danger for the sake of the village - going out to hunt, or to battle, to bear a child, or seek a vision - the person was given a ceremony. It is a ritual with sage smoke, and prayers, and sometimes a sweat lodge. It is to express thanks. It frees the person of unnecessary burdens, blesses them, and sends them off with prayers and protection."

Haja flushed slightly with emotion, and she looked at Heath with sadness in her eyes.

"When Teleli fled for his life from the reservation, we could not give him that. I do not think you were given that either, Me'weh, when you went to war."

"No," Heath said quietly, thinking of the two burly NCOs who strong-armed him onto a train bound for Saint Louis.

"Our village is not running away any more, thanks to you and your family and the strength of my people. Now, finally, we can bring our warriors home in the proper way. This is what we did for our Ghost Dancers, when Teleli sent them home to us.

"Always, at first, the returning ones stay apart from the village. Only the medicine people and the elder warriors may come tend to you. That is why you are alone here in the roundhouse, Me'weh. Well, except for Malila, who as usual was able to sneak away from her uncle and see you," she amended,shaking her headwith a tolerant smile."We take care of your injuries and do the sage blessing so you will be calm and ready for the sweat lodge.

"You saw the need to find balance before you could return home, Me'weh. From what I have heard, I think Teleli did as much as he could to purify and heal you, and himself, during your time in the mountains. That is important, it is very good, but you were two people alone. We must complete the ceremony now all together, with your people and with ours. The healing includes us all.

"The time in the sweat lodge is powerful - it is a most important part of the healing. Everyone - those in the lodge and those in the village - try hard to keep a thankful mind. Thankfulness is the heart of this. In the sweat lodge we chant, and we ask the Creator to take the demons of fear and violence away from us, away from the spirits of the ones who suffer. Sometimes there are visions. Mostly we sing and meditate, and pray for healing of our warriors' souls."

Heath could feel his heart beating in his chest; he could hear Teleli's chant and see the sage smoke and steam of their mountain shelter; he remembered the places he went in his mind. He took a deep breath in and thought, _Thankful. Yes, I am thankful. Terrified, and so thankful._

"After the healing of the sweat lodge, that is when you return to the village, for the storytelling."

Heath looked up, surprised and puzzled. "Storytelling?"

"All the returning ones come together with the rest of the village, to tell their battle stories. All share what was terrible, and what was good; you tell about the fear and loss; the victories and bravery."

She could see Heath frown skeptically, and she surprised him again by laughing at his reaction.

"Me'weh. I have known men like you, who feel it is so important to hide such burdens from the ones you protect. Think, and you will understand. This is something you give back to your people. We need to hear and remember your stories - so those who were not in the battles also can learn." She spread her hands apart to include all the warriors she saw in her memory. "You, and Teleli; the Ghost Dancers; Rivka, Hannah, and your family; your father John and his marshals; even Osa Wakalali and her giant black horse: all have fought for us, for each other, for your country. You have done things in our names; you have all suffered things for us. We must make those our stories too. We share the responsibility. It is not only your weight to carry. Not all can be shared, not all at once. For some it takes time. This is part of what cleanses the spirit, Me'weh."

She paused, then looked at all of them with a smile. "Then, finally - we will dance, and sing, and honor our warriors, and we will truly welcome them home."

It was powerful, her message, and having confronted several such wounded homecomings in his short life, Heath felt the truth of it in his bones. Still, he could not quite shake a feeling of discomfort.

Cut loose from the army at 16 and left to his own, no blessings or prayers of cleansing were offered him, beyond "may God have mercy on your soul". There was no ritual to acknowledge his experience and help him heal; and there was certainly no ceremony to honor his service and welcome him home. Not for him, and not for so many others, honorably discharged or not.

He wondered what Jarrod and Nick's homecomings were like. He suspected that even a loving family of wealth and social status could only go so far in welcoming a returning soldier; they could only look so deep, and much of that soldier's baggage would not be brought into the house. At best it might be stored out back somewhere where the soldier could look at it, alone, from time to time. Was it like that for his brothers?

He looked up to see Jarrod studying him, his blue eyes shadowed with the memories of massacre and the smell of burning cedar huts and acorn granaries. Jarrod had to bear that memory alone for all the years since. The people of Sutamasina, as tragic as their fate had been, at least could share with each other their stories of that night of burning.

Hannah rose to stand by Jarrod, murmuring something that eased the sadness in his expression. Watching her, Heath remembered all the years after the war, when he could do no more than pretend to be home: always moving on after a few weeks, moving on before the not-dead creature inside him and all his horrible experiences could reach out and contaminate the life of his family. Hannah knew, though. She had walked her own trail through Hell in her life, and she could always **_see_** him.

No ceremony for Hannah, though, crossing the whole country on her own, her family ripped away from her on the auction block. Nor for Silas, who had only barely begun to share with Heath his own stories of flight and fear and freedom, back before the summer.

 _Rivka's people, though - they know how to remember,_ Heath realized. _They know how to honor what has been lost._ Thousands of years of practice, _Rabbi Levi said to me once._ We have learned that both the mourning and the celebration are important.

 _Is that what's missing?_

"Haja", he said suddenly, "I see what you're saying. But it's not just me and Teleli, returning from battle. It's everyone: your people, my family. You have all been to war. We have all been wounded by this. Everyone needs to come home."

Now it was Haja who stopped in thoughtful surprise, regarding Heath with seriousness as she considered his words.

"That is true. We all need healing. That does not mean that we are wounded in the same way or that we carry the same burden. You don't **_want_** to need this, Me'weh. But you know you do need it. You are still fighting with that truth, but you know."

Jarrod was moved by what he had heard. He thought he understood better now what Teleli had done to help his brother, and while Heath was still struggling with the role this situation had placed upon him, he seemed intuitively to be seeking a more thoughtful path forward. He didn't want to jump right back into life at the ranch, as if nothing had happened.

 _And we have tried that already,_ Jarrod admitted.

 _Heath might not want to need help, or to be the focus of attention, but he understands the need for time, and transition. He's worked through it before; not as bad, but often by himself. Coming home, for him, is not simple._

 _So maybe…maybe staying on at Sutamasina will be the thing to help Heath come back to the Barkley family after all. Wouldn't that be ironic?_

Jarrod shook his head with a puzzled smile - then suddenly, he remembered what had precipitated Haja's lecture in the first place.

 _Heath clearly knows he needs time. So why is he in such a rush all of a sudden to get married?_

This train of thought was interrupted when Haja began scolding all four of them again, this time focusing her attention on Jarrod.

"Haja, what you say makes perfect sense -" he began to deflect.

"You should not be encouraging him in this marry-me-today idea, Jarrod. **_You_** are his older brother. You should be guiding him, especially since his father John is not here. I know you understand this, but you White men can be so blind on **_purpose_** sometimes!"

Haja spoke with a deep, honest passion, for she knew that her people's very survival depended on the mindful tending of their many interconnected relationships. Jarrod, the eldest, would understand this, and she appealed to him as one village leader to another. "You see what is needed just to bring a soldier home to his village. How much more is the healing needed for that wounded soldier to become a husband and a father? Me'weh must take the time to cleanse his spirit and settle his mind before he takes this step. And Rivka must allow her family to join her and give her strength."

She turned back to Rivka and Heath and spoke more gently. "These are important things. Do not rush on without them just because you are with child. That is acting from fear. Take the time to honor yourselves, and each other, and your families."

Heath looked questioning to Hannah, who beamed and nodded. "She's a wise one. She speaks the truth, child. She speaks the truth."

Heath turned to Rivka. "Acting from fear. I am, I think. I don't want to do what my father did. I want to protect you from that."

"You are **_nothing_** like your father in this, Heath," Rivka said emphatically. "Well, aside from…"

"I know, I know - but what if I had drowned in that river? Or what if I get struck by lightning tomorrow? Rivka, I am yours. You know it, I know it, both our families know it. But unless we do something legal, out there, you would be an unmarried woman with a child. That's not fear. That's a fact, and I can't let that happen."

Jarrod cleared his throat.

Heath winced and went silent - then he took a deep breath and turned reluctantly to face his brother. Jarrod was staring at the two of them with an expression that was simultaneously shocked, worried, and overjoyed.

With a huge effort, Heath was able to look Jarrod in the eye as he blushed and fumbled for words.

"Um, I - Jarrod, I was - I wanted to talk to you, but we, well, we hadn't - and then -"

"Believe me, Heath, I understand - **_that_** part, at least. It's not like we've had leisure to talk about much."

"I need - I need your help, Jarrod, I mean, we do -"

He no longer appeared flustered and caught off guard – Heath was appealing to him in a way Jarrod had not ever, in his memory, seen before. This stoic, often smartass brother had relied on him through several life-or-death legal situations. Heath's demeanor through these episodes ran the spectrum from cavalier and overly-confident at one end, to stubborn and overly-principled at the other. This, now, was different, and Jarrod was certain he knew why: Heath wasn't afraid for himself. It was for Rivka. Facing Jarrod now was a very young man who could see the full breadth and depth of the responsibilities he had taken on; who with all his soul wanted to do the right thing and wasn't sure where to start; and who badly needed his big brother to help him figure out what to do and how to do it.

Jarrod sometimes didn't know what to think about these two together. In his mind they were like a pair of wild creatures oftwo different species that somehow had bonded for life, galloping off together outside the bounds of conventional society. And at the same time, they were two of the most civilized, level-headed, responsible people he knew. For a long moment Jarrod just stood and looked at them, studying them both for any hint of unhappiness about the pregnancy itself. Seeing none, he stood ready then to turn his mind to practical matters, but found he was struggling to keep a wide, happy smile from taking over his expression.

He came over to kneel by the palette so he could look them both in the eye. His attempt at a stern expression failed utterly, and he simply hugged them both: first Rivka, then Heath, then both together.


	114. Chapter 113 - Nothing Lost

_One echo from the mountain air,  
_ _One ocean murmur, glad and free,  
_ _One sign that nothing grand or fair  
_ _In all this world was lost to me._

 _I will not wake the sleeping lyre;  
_ _I will not strain the chords of thought:  
_ _The sweetest fruit of all desire  
_ _Comes its own way, and comes unsought._

 _Though all the bards of earth were dead,  
_ _And all their music passed away,  
_ _What Nature wishes should be said  
_ _She'll find the rightful voice to say._

 _Her heart is in the shimmering leaf,  
_ _The drifting cloud, the lonely sky;  
_ _And all we know of bliss or grief  
_ _She speaks, in forms that cannot die._

 _The mountain peaks that shine afar,  
_ _The silent stars, the pathless sea,  
_ _Are living signs of all we are,  
_ _And types of all we hope to be._

 _William Winter, "The Golden Silence"_

* * *

 ** _Ocean Beach, San Diego, California, January 2, 1875_**

Dr. Hadassah Levi paused in her preparation of dinner to gaze through her kitchen window. The blue-gray curve of the Pacific Ocean was calm and glassy today, fading into rose-tinted mist at the horizon. Still, the sea moved: deeply, gently, like the breath of a peaceful child asleep. She never tired of looking at the ocean, no matter the mood or the weather.

Sunset was approaching. Far below, on the beach, she saw Teleli, as she always did at this time of day. Sunrise and sunset, every single day since he had risen from his sickbed, he had gone down to the water's edge. He would immerse himself in the sea, he would light a small fire, and he would sway and chant over the smoke. His movement as he prayed had seemed so familiar to her, and she had puzzled over that, until her sons noticed it as well.

"It's like he's _davening_ in the synagogue, Mama."

Solomon had joined them outside that day. "Yes, it is," he nodded in agreement, gazing thoughtfully at the distant figure on the beach. "Proverbs says the soul is a candle of God. Like the flame, the soul sways and dances in prayer, trying to reach upward to the source. Our bodies mirror this when we _daven,_ because we are concentrating, we are focusing, reaching for God."

Hadassah smiled at the memory, sending up her own prayer for Heath, and her daughter, and the somber, exiled Miwok man who had become so dear to all of them so quickly.

" _Hadassah_!"

Startled, she whirled around to see her husband burst into the kitchen, clutching a telegram in his hand.

" _Vey is meir,_ Solomon, you frightened me!"

The rabbi was disheveled, out of breath, and grinning from ear to ear. Stampeding in right behind him came her two 13-year-old sons, Avram and David. Broad-shouldered, handsome, identical, and well over six feet tall, they loomed over their father, eager for news.

She looked at her smiling husband and dared to hope. "Good news…?"

"Yes, _baruch haShem,_ yes." He looked close to tears himself. "They are free, both of them."

She exhaled in relief, and smiled at her sons. "You want to go tell him, yes? Of _course_ you do. Go. **_Go_**." She laughed as the boys raced down to the beach, whooping and howling in celebration. "I think they're going to break his concentration."

"That _is_ what they do," he agreed. "When do we head north?"

"On the next stagecoach to Los Angeles, my love – tomorrow morning. I've been packed and ready for days."

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, Stockton, California, January 5, 1875_**

Victoria stood in the library, hands on hips, staring in frustration at the portrait of her late husband that hung over the massive, carved wood mantelpiece.

 _Dammit, Tom, what am I going to do with you?_

It wasn't that she had to make a decision that day about what to do with the portrait. Lord knows, there were many, much more important things demanding her attention. She was worried about Jarrod, though, and her thoughts about him kept snagging on the man captured in that somber, tuxedo-clad image.

Fifteen years ago, she had watched Tom and their two sons ride off into the foothills of the Stanislaus. Tom had expressed the proper rejection of Nick's demand to skip school and go along. Victoria remembered, though, how happy Tom had been to have _both_ of his sons riding with him, buoyed by their mutual pride and affection, and his ever-present hope that Jarrod would take to the life of a rancher.

They did not return together. In explanation, Tom had been honest about the violence they had tried to prevent, and his desire to shield Nick from witnessing what had occurred, but he said nothing about the lost boy - the boy from Strawberry. He said little about anything for the next few days, in fact, as he brooded and hovered close to the house, waiting and watching for Jarrod's return.

Jarrod returned alone, and was even more silent and preoccupied than Tom, for the few days he had at home before he returned to school. Partial remembered images and impressions came to Victoria as she stared up at the portrait: Jarrod sitting with Audra, uncharacteristically preferring the toddler's company over that of his brother or father…her son's relief when it came time to board the train back to San Francisco…Tom, in contrast, suddenly avoidant of the blonde baby girl who typically could command at will his complete, affectionate attention.

Both men resisted utterly Victoria's attempts to understand their preoccupation. Jarrod returned to school, and Tom returned to Strawberry on a vague but urgent errand – something to do with the shipping of supplies and competing contracts. With just Nick, Audra, and Silas at home, the mood around the house returned somewhat to normal. Tom was back a week later. He was no longer anxious or restless – to Victoria he seemed sad and worn out. He related a story of an ambush outside Strawberry that resulted in the deaths of three would-be thieves.

Tom was not a man drawn easily to violence. Victoria finally had ascribed his melancholy to those experiences, and in her memory, the strangeness seemed quickly to fade.

Now, Victoria was remembering those days in a very different light, of course, and her heart ached for Jarrod, who left for Sutamasina the day after they returned from Sacramento. She nurtured a hope that he was finding some peace of mind in the work he was doing in Sonora, and she was very glad he could be there with Heath.

* * *

John, Nick, Jarrod, and she had returned three days ago from Sacramento. Audra and Silas were right there waiting for them, both doing their best not to show their anxiety and impatience. John barely made it home on horseback. Finally overcome by his multiple injuries and a terrible inflammation of the lungs that seemed to be the result of smoke inhalation, it was only with the help of Nick and Jarrod that he made it inside on his own two feet. For the following days, he was nearly helpless, too miserable and exhausted to parry either Audra's affectionate teasing or Dr. Merar's acerbic sarcasm. All he could do was follow Victoria with his eyes as she floated around the room, replenishing the steam pot by the bed or hurrying over to hold him when the coughing seemed to threaten him with oblivion.

"Love you, V, love you…" he had managed in a raspy whisper, before he collapsed back onto the pillows.

Meanwhile, messages were pouring in from every quarter, some with good news, some bad, but most demanding some kind of response.

The rains that had sent a mountainside flowing down the Stanislaus had created floods and mudslides all along the foothills. Nick came home to the problem of widespread flooding all along their eastern boundary. Two full herds and their attendant cowboys were cut off and stranded at opposite corners of the ranch: one to the southeast at Cherokee Creek, and one far to the northeast along the Mokelumne. John's daughter Grace, who had planned to visit, sent word of similar troubles on their land near Sacramento, threatening their breeding stock and their access roads.

The Levi family responded to Victoria's message about the amnesty by wiring that they were already _en route_ northbound from San Diego; Hadassah included the date and time of their expected arrival, and a cryptic mention of two additional travelers coming with them.

Finally, a messenger from Jim Roberts in Sonora brought the anxiously awaited confirmation that Jed and Rivka had found Heath at Parrott's Ferry, arriving just in time to pull him out from under a mudslide. Roberts' report went on to say that Heath was now safely back in Sutamasina, with "serious, but survivable, injuries". Montana, meanwhile, had also suffered some injuries, and was healing up at home.

The family and Silas spontaneously gathered to discuss and formulate a plan, coming together in the master bedroom to which Nick and Jarrod had brought John on their arrival home.

A few things they could decide quickly, at least. First, there was a vote and a unanimous veto of John's expressed intention to get up and do anything. Victoria and Silas set themselves the task of getting the ailing marshal settled in, and sending for the doctor. The stranded groups of cattle and men were clearly in a bad situation, and Nick needed to ride out immediately to gather extra men and equipment, coordinate the recovery, and scout the fence lines for any other trouble spots. He turned to this effort with his usual gruff, incisive energy, all the while complaining loudly about the absence of his cowboy brother.

Jarrod walked him out to his horse.

"Listen, Nick, you be careful. I'll go straightaway to Sonora. I know you're worried about Heath, we all are, but you need to pay attention to what you're doing out there. With this weather, there could be a lot more trouble up in the hills than we've heard about." His words did little to lighten his brother's expression. He put a hand on Nick's shoulder, studying his scowling face as he slid his rifle into the saddle scabbard and tightened Coco's cinch. As he did so often these days, Jarrod found himself picturing Nick as he had been, fifteen years ago: a gangly, dark-haired colt, full of life, and strength - and emotion. Nick reacted to things; he was resilient, yes, but he **_felt_** things deeply.

 _He always did, from the time he was a baby,_ Jarrod thought. _I am glad Father took him home by another route, that day in the mountains. He was so young - too young to see so much death and destruction._

 _Who am I kidding? No one is ever ready for that. No one is ever old enough to take in that much tragedy and loss._

"Jarrod." Nick's voice was surprisingly gentle.

Nick had turned to face him, shaken from his own brooding by something unusual in Jarrod's tone of voice. Their eyes met, and Nick could see again the mourning and memory that had been weighing so heavily on his brother. He couldn't do anything to change the past, but instinctively Nick did what he usually did when confronted with something too big and too heavy for one man: he reached out to try to shoulder some of the load.

"I'll be careful, Brother Jarrod, I promise. _Someone's_ gotta roll up their sleeves and do the dirty work around here."

"That's true."

"I – I want to say -" He paused and raked a hand through his hair. "Listen, Jarrod, I know, back then, we didn't ever talk about what happened to all those Miwok villages, or what you saw. Father wouldn't talk about it afterward, and I – well – I was a stupid kid. I'm glad you told me. You shouldn't have to carry that by yourself."

"You were never a stupid kid, Nick. A little hardheaded at times -"

"Don't change the subject."

Jarrod raised one eyebrow in surprise and gestured silently for Nick to continue.

"Believe me, I want to ride with you to Sonora and babysit that fool brother of ours until I see he can keep himself in one piece for at least a few weeks at a stretch." Scowling again, Nick buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves as he spoke. "But we all gotta put our hand to where we're needed the most, and it's right that you're the one going. Heath needs you, Jarrod, I'm sure of it. But it's more than that.

"Haja, and Husu, and all the people of that Miwok village are out there, trying to stake their claim in pretty hostile territory. They're nowhere near out of the woods yet, and you know they need someone like you fighting with them until they really get some roots in the ground. Right?" Nick stooped slightly to make eye contact, waiting until Jarrod nodded. "Thing is, I think it's also what **_you_** need. You need to see that something's been saved from the fire - that something survived and can grow. **_You_** need to see them get those roots in the ground. Am I wrong?"

Jarrod hesitated, and then shook his head, silenced now not by Nick's scolding, but by a certainty that his hardheaded brother was about to show him something true and important.

"And maybe, Jarrod – just maybe, you need to see that our brother survived it too. I don't think you quite believe that yet."


	115. Chapter 114 - Mortal Business

_For thou hast but fallen to gather the last of the secrets of power;_

 _The beauty that breathes in thy spirit shall shape of thy sorrow a flower,_

 _The pale bud of pity shall open the bloom of its tenderest rays,_

 _The heart of whose shining is bright with the light of the Ancient of Days._

 _A.E., "Hope in Failure"_

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

Jarrod turned off the Sonora-Jamestown road onto an increasingly well-travelled track, which meandered south to the bright green and yellow village gates. A mile on, as had become his habit, he reined in Jingo at the top of a rise and took in the view. From that spot, he could see virtually the entire 640-acre farmstead that he had purchased outright in one afternoon, for the sum of $4,193. To be accurate, the land itself went for $4,160; the additional $33 went toward facilitating the title research and preparing the documentation necessary to make the purchase as airtight and incontestable as possible, as quickly as possible.

It did not seem like much, when compared to the $32,000 sum Jarrod had allocated a few months ago to expand the Barkley Ranch territory northward by 4000 acres. He was proud of what he had accomplished there; the transaction had been challenging and complex, and had taken him months to negotiate. It was a big deal, on a big, valuable tract of land; it even made the front page of the Sacramento papers.

In his mind, though, that acquisition paled in importance to what lay before him now. Jarrod knew that the one-square-mile plot of land he was looking at was priceless.

The abandoned farmstead had become a village of 143 souls, the last survivors of a cluster of Miwok villages whose people, at the time of the 1859 massacre, had numbered well over 1500. When Morgan began his last aggressive campaign of "depredation" in Tuolumne County a few months ago, the Miwok of the region numbered fewer than 300. Only 237 survived the round up and forced march to the camp. Of these, 31 died within the first 48 hours, of disease, dehydration, gunfire, and exposure. The first week saw an additional 27 deaths, nearly half being small children and infants. As conditions improved and Rivka received more medical supplies and support, the death rate declined, albeit slowly; there were 36 more lost, through December and into January. There had been no new cases of typhus, though, and no funeral pyres, for over a week.

Jarrod was inescapably familiar with these tallies. In addition to the land, he had identified, enumerated, validated, and purchased the indenture of every single Miwok in the camp, in the desperate hope that some abiding respect for a White man's property rights might keep them from being murdered by Morgan's mercenaries. As the threat receded, Jarrod had then methodically redeemed and voided each one of those 237 indentures, including those of the 96 dead. The latter was a symbolic act, and perhaps one that no longer mattered to those who had joined their ancestors on the spirit path of the Milky Way. Still, as he spent the dark month of December in an increasingly futile struggle with the Governor for the life of his brother, Jarrod found such acts mattered very much to him.

Despite these grave memories, Jarrod smiled, and drew in a deep lungful of the cool, misty air. Exhaling, he appreciated the fact that, despite the unusual current circumstances, he felt more peaceful and joyful than he had at any time in recent memory.

The past week he had spent in Sonora and Sutamasina felt strangely removed from time. The days resonated and flowed at a different rhythm than did the stuttering gears and snagging distractions of normal life. Jarrod had come, ostensibly, to see to his convalescing younger brother; furthermore, before he had left the ranch, each member of the family, including Silas, had commanded him - in one way or another - to bring Heath back home as soon as possible. While he was sure those family members would vigorously disagree, Jarrod thought perhaps it was a good thing that he had come by himself. He would not go so far as to say a flooded ranch and an injured husband were blessings in disguise, but Jarrod could appreciate patience and timelessness at this point; he felt strongly it was what Heath needed. It seemed important not to push. He could admit, too: Nick was right. Jarrod himself needed some time to heal, to remember, and to think things through.

This is not to say, however, that the week had been uneventful. On the contrary.

 ** _One week earlier, Village of Sutamasina_**

Jarrod had ridden at top speed to Sutamasina soon after they had returned from Sacramento. Hannah met him at the painted gate with a hug and a smile that eased some of his worry. She brought him to the newly built roundhouse, where Rivka and Haja were tending to Heath.

The roundhouse was lovely, solid and graceful; it was half-dug into the ground so that the sweeping bark roof seemed to be holding the earth in a warm embrace. Inside it was warm and dry, and smelled of cedar and moss. Heath lay unconscious, uncovered to the waist, as Rivka applied a salve to some old and new lacerations. _Survivable_ , Roberts' letter had said, but to Jarrod's eye, Heath looked like he could go either way. His skin was damp with the kind of perspiration that Jarrod unhappily associated with a terminal illness. Wind-burned and tanned as Heath was, still every visible part of him that was not bruised and abraded was as pale as death.

Heath did not stir as the women rose to greet Jarrod warmly. Jarrod tried to take reassurance from their calm demeanor. He tried to ask the appropriate questions, but he felt suddenly as if he could not breathe. He just stood there, eyes wide, staring at his brother, overwhelmed by memory.

"Why – why is he -?"

 _Why do you have a White boy in your village?_

"God, Heath -" He started to step forward. Then, abruptly light-headed, he stopped, and raised an unsteady hand to his eyes. He could hear Rivka speaking to him.

"Jarrod. Jarrod, what is wrong? Are you ill?" Her warm hand was on his cheek, and he looked up to see her dark eyes searching his face. "He's going to be OK, Jarrod, I promise. He's lost a lot of blood, and he's in a lot of pain, but he's going to be OK."

He managed to nod and even smile weakly in response. That was good news. But –

 _Who is your family? What is your father's name?_

 _He was **right there**. Right there in front of me. Just that far away. _

Jarrod's hands ached with the helpless desire to reach out to that little boy. He wondered how his father had lived with that memory. He wondered, too, if this terrible remorse was part of what drove Tom Barkley to take on ever riskier and more dangerous causes over the years, until finally the iron hand of the Coastal and Western Railroad had struck him down.

Feeling uncharacteristically that he might start weeping uncontrollably, Jarrod backed up toward the door. "I just need some air," he managed, aware he was fooling no one. "I'll just be a minute -"

Hannah placed a hand on his arm. "That was _then_ , Jarrod. I was there too, and Haja. I remember when you came back, riding through the rain and fog." She was smiling gently up at him. "That was then. Now, we are here. Heath is here." She patted his arm. "Go out. Come back in when you want. We are all here."

He nodded gratefully and stepped outside, wanting a moment to collect himself. _That was then,_ he repeated to himself. _That was **then**. _He found himself remembering another dark rainy afternoon, a week or so after Heath had first come to the ranch.

 _He saw a line of light under the library door, and entered, worried that a lamp had been left unattended. He was surprised instead to find Heath, dressed for outdoor work, but reading a small volume of Shakespeare._

 _The light of the lamp on his face showed clearly the old and new bruises that Heath seemed to acquire on a near-daily basis, something Jarrod had only recently begun to notice. Having noticed, however, Jarrod had begun to listen, and what he overheard in town, and among the hands, told him this: Heath was routinely outnumbered; he was (usually) not the instigator; and he was (usually) giving as good as he got. Jarrod took some satisfaction in those facts, but the bottom line was that it had to stop. He would speak to Nick about it – again._

 _Heath did not look up, as Jarrod entered, absorbed as he was in puzzling out the unfamiliar language of the play. He spoke some phrases softly aloud in an attempt to hear their meaning. Jarrod's attention was drawn to his hands – they were calloused and bruised, but they were clean, and they handled the small book with almost reverential care._

 _"This is no mortal business, nor no sound…That the earth owes. I hear it now above me." Heath frowned. "That the earth owes…?"_

 _"It means Ferdinand believes the music he hears is supernatural, that is, not the singing of someone earth-bound and mortal."_

 _Heath startled, and almost dropped the book in his hands. " **Jarrod**. Boy howdy, how'd a lawyer learn to be so stealthy?" _

_"Can I help you with something, Heath?"_

 _Heath blushed slightly and glanced around the room. "Nah, I just – it was raining, and I'm waitin' on a load of lumber to arrive, and I – well, you have so many books. If my Aunt Rachael had had all these books…" He smiled fondly. "Let's just say I woulda been a very well educated boy. And I probably woulda never gotten away from the kitchen table."_

 _Jarrod looked slightly confused. "Kitchen table?"_

 _Heath started to answer, then broke off and looked away, suddenly self-conscious and uncomfortable. He cleared his throat nervously and turned to replace the volume on the shelf. "She loves books. I sent a letter to tell her about it. About this library, I mean. Anyway, I'll – um – I'll get outta your way -"_

 _"No, no, you're welcome to anything in this library, Heath. I want you to know that." Jarrod held out his hand to stop him from leaving. "You're reading 'The Tempest'?" He smiled, looking at the page Heath had been reading. "It's a wonderful play. I had a professor who said Shakespeare wanted to show us that justice and happiness – the "happy ending" – can, and usually does, come from imperfect beginnings. Imperfect people, imperfect motives, imperfect understanding of each other." Heath was listening to him closely, Jarrod noticed, his eyes thoughtful. Acutely aware, suddenly, of the meaning of his own words, Jarrod glanced down at the page, and then read aloud, though he knew most of it by heart:_

 _"Full fathom five thy father lies._

 _Of his bones are coral made;_

 _Those are pearls that were his eyes;_

 _Nothing of him that doth fade_

 _But doth suffer a sea-change_

 _Into something rich and strange."_

"Rich and strange," Jarrod murmured to himself as he gazed out over the Miwok village. "A sea change…"

" _Rich and strange_. That is what Me'weh always says about me. I know it is something good, but I don't know what he means."

Surprised, Jarrod looked down to see Malila looking up at him, hands on hips, mimicking his posture. He squatted down to eye level with her.

"Malila, right?" She nodded. "Well, we'll have to ask my brother when he wakes up, but I think he means that sometimes we find the most wonderful things – and wonderful people – in places we'd least expect it, and he thinks you're one of those wonderful people."

She studied him seriously. "Why do you and Audra have blue sky-eyes like Me'weh? Were you blind like him?"

"Blind? No - I think we get them from our father."

"The Barkley father?"

"Yes."

"But he is not really Me'weh's father. Haja says John the marshal is his father, but _his_ eyes are the color of river pebbles. How does Me'weh have sky-eyes like the Barkley father?"

"Um – well –" He began to temporize.

"Is your father the father of his body, and John is the father of his family?"

"Yes, exactly," Jarrod agreed, with a sigh of relief.

"But your Barkley father left him behind in our village when the scalp hunters were coming."

"Yes," he nodded gravely. "Yes, he did. _We_ did."

"If you and your Barkley father and Hopa'mu didn't come to warn us, me and Kono would not be born. Or my friend Yukulu either. Her village was Olawiye. You warned them too and some of them got away. Husu tells us the story. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I do. But who is Hopa'mu?"

"You are silly. Hopa'mu is your _brother_. Grizzly Bear."

He laughed. "Of course."

"I am glad you came that night. I love Yukulu very much, and my brother."

"I am glad too, Malila."

"And Me'weh made it back to you. He found his way back. Husu said."

"Yes, he did, and I am _especially_ glad for that."

"When Me'weh wakes up, he can tell us where Teleli is. We all want Teleli to come home too. We miss him."

Later that day, Jarrod remembered, Malila came running to tell him Me'weh was awake and was trying to leave.

It had not been too difficult to wrestle Heath back down to floor; Jarrod, in fact, was amazed his brother had even made it to standing. He himself was still so awash in memories, he could easily follow the currents he sensed in Heath, and make a good guess at what was driving him to fight so desperately.

He would never have predicted the revelations that followed, however. He was utterly surprised to learn of Rivka's pregnancy - and surprised, too, by the deep, simple joy the news brought him, despite all the questions and concerns that instantly came to his mind.

 _I need your help, Jarrod._ That simple statement cleared his mind and planted his feet firmly back on dry land. There were questions and concerns, details to be worked out, timing to be considered, but in the end, they were just details. Jarrod could listen to what Heath and Rivka needed and wanted; the task of making their nascent family a legal reality was no more difficult than a few trips into Sonora over the next few days. He told them that - once his immediate emotion had eased enough to start talking business.

"It's just a matter of paperwork. Even if you delay a wedding ceremony, as Haja has so strongly suggested," he said, giving the headwoman a quick smile, "I can still put into place all the necessary legal protections for Rivka and the baby in the meantime. There's one important question I'd need you to answer, though."

"What is it, Jarrod?"

"The name," he said carefully, in all seriousness. "I don't think – given all that has happened – I don't feel I should make any assumptions. So I'm asking. What family name to you wish to use?" He saw Heath raise his eyebrows and turn with a questioning look to Rivka. Jarrod went on, keeping his expression neutral with an effort. "Before you answer, know that your choice makes no difference in what we can do legally. I just need to know – for the documents, you understand. So they reflect your decisions – your preference."

The couple conferred quietly for a few moments, and then Hannah joined them. Jarrod had the distinct impression they were asking her to give her blessing to their decision. She winked at Jarrod as she returned to stand by him.

Heath turned to face him again. He looked terrible, physically. He was beaded with perspiration, and he looked like he would not be able to stay sitting upright for much longer - but the eyes that met his were steady, and his words were clear.

"I reckon I have to judge the Barkley name by the people I know who carry it, Jarrod. I'd be proud to make it mine." He grinned slightly at Jarrod's obvious relief at his answer.

Jarrod exhaled with a laugh, knowing Heath was reading him. "And Rivka? What say you, Dr. Levi?"

" _We'd_ be proud," she confirmed, with a brilliant smile. "Proud to make it ours."

That smile, so full of warmth, humor, and strength, brought to his memory the first time he ever met this young woman, back in Carson City. He was, quite simply and profoundly, grateful for her presence in his family, and he told her so.

Hannah laughed and clapped her hands, and hugged Jarrod in celebration. She then turned to Haja, still grinning, but with a more businesslike air.

"Headwoman, what do you say?"

Haja was pleased, but she also took her responsibilities for village observance and ceremony very seriously. She chose her words carefully. "This is acceptable. Me'weh must complete the rituals of healing and return before a marriage ceremony. That comes first. I hope Teleli will soon be back so that you and he can return together. That would be most powerful." She looked at Rivka thoughtfully. "Our people think of creation, every creature and thing, as belonging either to land or to water. Marriages are usually between one of each: a land person and a water person. Our names reflect this. Me'weh is a land creature, but we found him in the river. I have never been able to decide to which side he belongs. I will do a blessing ceremony for you, Rivka, as a bride and a mother, and if you let me, I will seek your name. Perhaps you also belong to both sides."

She turned back to the group and looked gravely at Heath, who had gradually sunk back down to lie on the palette. He looked up at her, still listening, but utterly exhausted and clearly in pain.

"It is our custom, as I said, to keep the returning ones apart, away from the village and family, until the cleansing ritual is done. You will go apart with our warriors, Me'weh, and build a shelter and a sweat lodge, and prepare yourself." She nodded definitively. "But not tonight. You are still too injured, Me'weh. You must rest, and eat, and gather strength." She smiled. "Besides, each of your family members are warriors of a kind, too. You have some battle stories to share with each other, I think."


	116. Chapter 115 - The Preacher

_For this is Love's nobility,  
_ _—Not to scatter bread and gold,  
_ _Goods and raiment bought and sold;  
_ _But to hold fast his simple sense,  
_ _And speak the speech of innocence,  
_ _For he that feeds men serveth few;  
_ _He serves all who dares be true._

 _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

 _Great souls by instinct to each other turn,  
_ _Demand alliance, and in friendship burn._

 _Joseph Addison_

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 3, 1875  
_**

 _"You have some battle stories to share with each other, I think."_

 _That was an understatement,_ Jarrod thought. _Battle stories indeed. There was a great deal to tell, and to understand._

It was clear that not all could be shared that first night, however. And some tales were easier to tell than others.

Haja had withdrawn to allow the four of them – Jarrod, Heath, Rivka, and Hannah – time to talk together. Jarrod walked Haja to the door, expressing his thanks for the care she had shown all of them. He then turned back to look at his companions: all three so dear to him as family; all three unknown to him less than two years ago.

He heard a groan and some muttered curses. Heath was struggling, unsuccessfully, to get himself into a sitting position, and was finding this time he couldn't even get as far as his hands and knees. Rivka had come to sit by him, a satchel of medical supplies in her lap. She watched him patiently, offering no assistance, until he gave up. Winded and perspiring, he had succeeded only in rolling over; he dropped his forehead to rest on the faded deerskin mat on which he lay, and tried to catch his breath.

"Boy…howdy, Rivka, why am I…. _damn_ , everything hurts…why am I so -"

"Feeble?" she suggested, with an innocent smile. Jarrod was briefly shocked, then began to grin.

" _Feeble?_ Who you callin' -"

"Perhaps not feeble, exactly… _decrepit_ , perhaps."

Exasperated, knowing she was teasing him now, Heath started to push himself up so he could turn to look at her.

"De- _what_ \- ? Girl, just you wait - just -" He was cut off mid-sentence by the combined protest of all the battered muscles of his upper body. He froze, his teeth clamped down on the howl of pain that came rising up into his throat. " _Damn -"_ he squeaked out, when he let himself try breathing again. Then – slowly, carefully - he lowered himself back down to where he started.

"Damn," he said again, once he caught his breath - this time addressing himself to the deerskin bed where he was apparently trapped for the moment. He felt her hand stroke the back of his head, and closed his eyes.

"Not decrepit," she amended. "Pig-headed stubborn, I think that's what I was trying to say." She leaned down to kiss his cheek. "You've had a bit of a set-back, love. You remember? You're exhausted and out of breath because you've lost so much blood. Just crossing that river was like being trampled by herd of cattle, but then the mountain fell on you too. And we don't even know what kind of shape you were in when you escaped."

"Believe me," he muttered, eyes still closed, " _those_ boys knew their job." He turned his head to look up at her. "Is Raul OK?"

"Yes, he'll be fine. Plenty mad, but fine."

"Thank God for that."

"I mixed up a whole new batch of this hot pepper salve for you, love." She looked up at Jarrod and Hannah. "How about you let your big brother **_help_** you sit up this time? I'll get some of the salve on you, and we'll try something to eat and drink."

At Hannah's suggestion, Jarrod had set himself to shoring up and feeding the small cook fire, while she warmed up a pot of something that looked like porridge, but had a rich, nutty aroma. The steam and wood smoke curled together and gently rose, like a ghostly rope, to disappear through an opening at the very peak of the cedar shake roof.

"What is that, Hannah?" Jarrod leaned over to peek at the mixture.

"Porridge," she answered, her eyes on the pot as she stirred. "Acorn porridge. I think this batch'll be good, once I add some honey." She wrinkled her nose skeptically. "These Miwok folks use acorns for most everything, but I ain't got a taste for their cookin' yet. I aim to make somethin' with this acorn meal that a body might actually _enjoy_."

"I have faith in you, Hannah."

She met his gaze then, her expression peaceful, and he found he shared that welcome feeling. She laid a warm hand briefly on his cheek. "Go help your stubborn brother," she said. "He needs to eat something. And, Rivka," she called over her shoulder, "first thing he needs is some of this bone broth I've got simmering over here."

"Yes, ma'am," Rivka responded.

They got Heath propped up into something like a comfortable position, and they shared a meal together. Relaxing into the soothing heat of the salve on his skin, he leaned back and looked gratefully at the faces around him. He could feel some strength and energy returning.

Beyond the cedar walls of the roundhouse in which they sat, the life of the village flowed around them, and Rivka could make out some of the excited talk about Teleli and Me-weh, and the sweat lodge ceremony that would soon take place. She translated some of what she could hear, then finally she asked a question that was on all their minds.

"Time for storytelling," she said. "How in the world did Teleli end up in San Diego with my family? How did he get there?"

Heath smiled. "You're gonna like this, darlin'." He paused, gathering his thoughts, then said, "We were in a desperate situation, Teleli and I, and it was a desperate idea, but I honestly didn't know where else to turn.

"Once we had made it down from the snow, we holed up by the hot springs along the Buckeye for over a week, just resting, eating, and healing up. Teleli had been grazed by a bullet. Never told me about it. Morgan emptied his revolver after us when we took off on Charger, heading for the pass. One shot left a nasty gouge in Teleli's leg. I guess we could be grateful it wasn't worse. He had been tending to it himself. He thought it was getting better, until – well, until he was suddenly so sick and in pain he couldn't walk.

"It came on so fast. We broke camp and were headed east and south, down country. Didn't really know where we were going, yet – but I knew we needed to get down to where it would be warmer and there'd be better grazing for Charger. By the end of the first day Teleli couldn't put any weight on that leg, and by the next day he was fevered and really sick. I brought us down past Mono Lake, foraging what supplies I could along the way. I was having a hell of a time staying clear of all those winter camps and settlements full of miners and riff-raff, all come down out of the mountains for the winter.

"We couldn't stay in one spot for long, and we had to move back up into the foothills to get out of sight. I treated that leg as best I could, and I got us to a spot I remembered on Glass Creek, where I thought we could stay hidden for at least a day or two - but I knew it wasn't enough. I had a feeling we were already being tracked. And Teleli needed more tending than I could give him. What I was doing wasn't helping fast enough.

"He was delirious off and on. When he was clear-headed, he'd tell me to take off and leave him there. I had run out of ideas how to keep him alive and keep us both out of the hands of the bounty hunters." His tone was matter-of-fact, but Jarrod could see in his eyes just how desperate his brother had been feeling at that point. "But then," Heath went on, with a grin for Rivka, " ** _then_** , I remembered Hot Creek. I remembered that I had a friend in the neighborhood."

She gasped in surprise, and then clapped her hands with a cry of pleasure. "Oh, Heath!" she sang. "Brother Samuel! You found Brother Samuel? Did you _really_?"

"You bet." He had the contented look of a man who knows he's brought the perfect birthday present.

"Brother Samuel," Hannah mused. "I remember. He's that same Sam you told me about, the prison guard at Carterson that helped you?" Heath nodded, taking a swallow from his bowl of broth. "I remember you told me he became a travelin' preacher after the war, roaming through all those mining towns and cattle towns. Sounded like he was a little crazy. How'd he end up in Hot Creek?"

"He _was_ a little crazy," Heath agreed. "I think he was a good, simple, loyal kid, and I think the war broke his heart. All that killing and madness." He nodded to himself, remembering. "Seemed to me like it broke his heart, but broke it open, you know? He said to me once he was certain every person could hear and see God if they just would look and listen, but mostly folks just won't. I found him one day, crying, a week or so after the camp was liberated. He said couldn't be deaf and blind anymore to what God wanted of him. He couldn't block it out like he used to, and he didn't know what would become of him. He **_felt_** so much - all those struggling souls around him, the good and the bad, and he knew he had to care for them, somehow." He smiled sadly, remembering. "He cared for me, I know that. If it hadn't been for him -" Heath shivered slightly as he considered what could have happened. "Well, Rivka and I wouldn't be here telling any of this."

"Mama kept him close by her, once the camp was liberated," Rivka remembered. "To the South he was a Yankee sympathizer, and to most of the Union Army he was just a Reb prison guard, but Mama kept him under her wing while the army was sorting things out. She taught him things and kept him busy assisting her with patients. He just walked off into the desert one day, not too long after you rode out, Heath. He just walked off and disappeared, and we never saw him again."

Heath was picturing the last time he saw Sam before he left Carterson.

 _The Union Army had ruled that Heath was no longer worthy of the uniform he wore, and he was ordered to turn it in. In the end, worn and tattered as it was, they had only taken the coat; the rest was not much more than rags, but it was all he had. Sam had come to him with a good sturdy coat, shirt, and pants - to whom they originally belonged, he would not say. He placed his hands on either side of Heath's face and kissed the top of his head, as if blessing him. "Go with God, boy. I wish I could ride with you and keep you safe on your journey home."_

 _"You get home safe too, Sam. Get home safe."_

Sam did not get home, Heath learned later. He went to his hometown, but found no _home_ there: his best friend had died in Carterson; his mother had died of a fever during the war, and his father had moved on, no one knew where; the town and its remaining inhabitants were a post-war ruin; and he himself was regarded as a traitor to the Confederacy. He turned his steps again to the west and started walking, and somewhere along the way he became Brother Samuel, the wandering preacher.

"I had run across him twice, since the war," Heath went on. "First time was in '67, when I was a deputy. Frank and I rode to Modesto. Local law asked us to help keep an eye on what they were calling a "Faith Gathering". It was a sight – was at least twenty of those con-men "healers" and sky pilots all circled in together like some kinda religion circus. Each one preachin' louder than the next, and clipping folks for as much money as they could." He shook his head in bemusement, picturing it. "All but one guy. This "Brother Samuel". I'd heard talk about him, here and there in the Valley, but I didn't know who he was. Heard how he wouldn't take money, or promise any miracles. How he'd skip over the talk about whiskey and women and gambling. Instead he told folks to listen _inside,_ and look at how they treated themselves and each other. _You don't need me to tell you what God is saying to you,_ he would say. _You already **know**. You just need to listen. **Listen**. _It made some people angry, I'd heard, and he was run out of not a few towns. Folks often don't want to **_know_**. They want to be told. They want to hear what makes them comfortable."

"I think I remember that!" Jarrod said suddenly. "Yes. Outside Modesto. There was a big ruckus – it was in the newspapers. I read that several of the preachers were in a righteous rage and actually attacked him, tried to lynch him, in fact. Law had to ride in and bring him out to safety. That was you and Frank?"

"Yep, that was us – and imagine my surprise when I got a closer look at "Brother Samuel". Boy howdy, he'd changed. He was still a big, strong guy, but he had long hair, a beard down to his chest, and he was dressed like a Franciscan monk – like a monk who hadn't gotten a new robe for many years, that is. He _looked_ like crazy man, but he wasn't, really. It was almost like he was **_too_** sane, y'know?" He laughed. "You shoulda seen Frank's face when we pulled up outside of town – we'd barely gotten out in one piece ourselves – and the crazy monk looks at me, yells _Heath, is that you,_ and then starts crying and hugging me and praising the Lord.

"We sent him safely on his way. This time he left the Valley and walked off east, up into the Sierra, saying he thought the desert was calling to him.

"A few years later, in '71," Heath continued, "I was between jobs, and on my way up to Strawberry to visit. I'd just spent half a year makin' good money, driving a six-horse hitch on a jehu run over Pacheco Pass between Firebaugh and Gilroy. I was ready for a break, was gonna just take it easy riding back up country, maybe do some fishing on the way."

Jarrod looked up in surprise at this bit of history. _A six-horse hitch? Pacheco Pass?_ There was no shortage of stories of the hair-raising dangers of those high-speed runs through the winding road across the Diablo Mountains – or the skill and sheer nerve it took to drive a team of six in those conditions. There were robbers, a tight timetable, falling rocks, and other unexpected obstacles; it was so hazardous, in fact, that Pacheco Pass was said to be haunted. "I sure hope they paid you well," he commented. _Was there any job this brother hadn't done?_

"They sure did, and I earned every penny of it, too. I was ready to take my sweet time riding to Strawberry – though I had to keep reminding myself of that. Took me at least a week to stop feeling constantly like I had to beat the clock. Then I made the mistake of stopping off on my way, to visit Frank."

Heath paused for a moment to shift his position slightly with a groan of discomfort, and took another swallow of Hannah's bone broth. "It's funny. Sometimes the things you think are terrible at the time turn out to be the biggest blessings."

"Amen," said Hannah.

"So I rode in to visit Frank. I find him putting together a posse, and he's down one deputy who got a case of pneumonia. There'd been a big break at the Nevada State Prison, you remember that, Jarrod? Twenty-nine convicted thieves and murderers escaped, some running north, some south. Six of 'em crossed into California and were killing and robbing their way through Mono County. Frank was planning to take his posse over Tioga Pass and bring those six back to Carson City."

"I certainly do remember that. You signed on, I take it. No surprise there."

"That's right. Frank swore me in on the spot. I tried to talk myself out of it, but you know how that goes in this family." Heath glanced at Jarrod, a hint of a grin curving his lips.

"Yes, I know," Jarrod agreed with a smile.

"About 20 miles south of Mono Mills, the group we were tracking split up, and so did we. This was a bad bunch. They had been attacking any soul they came across, just to slow us down, 'cause we'd stop to try to help the folks they'd injured. Then they split, 4 one way and 2 the other. Frank headed southwest with two men after the bigger group. Pinned 'em down at Convict Lake* - that's what they call it now. Frank captured two of the fugitives and brought 'em back to prison; the other two were killed in the gunfight at the lake, along with one of Frank's deputies. I heard they named one of the mountains down there after that deputy.

"Me and this fella Dunham tracked after the two going southeast. We were having our own share of trouble. His horse had gone lame and was slowing us down more and more. But we caught up to the two fugitives we were chasing, because they'd stopped to attack and rob a group of women and children. Miners' families. Camped in the wrong place at the wrong time, those ladies were. Thank heaven none of them were too badly injured – but we came down on those men hard and fast. One of the fugitives ran for it. Dunham killed the other one, but caught a bullet himself. He stayed behind so the women could patch him up and he could give them some protection until their menfolk got back. I kept on after the man who got away. Just around sunset, I found him."

Heath could picture the scene. Every detail was so clear, he could almost reach out and touch it.

 _He tied off his horse, pulled his rifle from the scabbard, and crept cautiously toward the steaming rock formations he could see ahead. The rising vapor glowed crimson under the blazing sunset sky. Impatiently, he shook off a superstitious feeling he was creeping toward the mouth of Hell._

Stop it, _he admonished himself._ It's just a hot spring like a hundred others in these parts. It's just another bad guy to catch. Nothing spooky, Heath. Pay attention. _The sounds of struggle that had drawn his attention came again, the source out of sight beyond the rocks. Heath moved more quickly, knowing he was tracking only one man._

 _He reached the rocks and sighted his rifle down into the gully beyond, squinting to keep his focus on his target. The man he hunted was a shadowed figure, obscure within the billowing red steam. He appeared to be kicking a pile of rags that lay in a heap beside the pools of weirdly blue-green water._

 _It was a strange and distracting sight, especially to an exhausted man at the tail end of a day such as he'd had._ Pay attention, _Heath repeated - and then he realized that the pile of rags was in fact a man, injured and groaning on the ground._

 _Heath took aim and called the fugitive out, his voice ringing loud in the quiet, rocky landscape. "You there! This is Deputy Marshal Thomson. Step away from that man, drop your weapon, and put your hands in the air."_

 _The man hesitated, and Heath fired a warning shot. "Step away and lose the gun, **now** , or I will drop you where you stand." _

_A moment later, that was what Heath had to do. The man raised his gun and fired at Heath. The pile of rags began to stand up, as if to engage the gunman; the gunman turned his weapon on the ragged man, and Heath put the gunman down, quickly and efficiently. He then hurried down the grade to see to the ragged man, who was struggling to his feet to greet him._

 _"Heath? Heath Thomson? How – where – where did you come from? And this lunatic – where did **he** come from?" He staggered, and Heath caught him up, almost as confused and surprised as Sam. They smiled at each other in the steamy, sulfuric twilight. _

_"Sam? Boy howdy, look at you, you're even more raggedy than the last time I saw you." He looked down at the man he had shot. "Seems to me this outlaw here just stumbled into you, but he's a bad one. I've been picking up the damage along his trail for a few days." He laughed, shaking his head in amazement. " **Sam**. Brother Samuel. I always wondered where you disappeared to. What are you **doing** way out here?" _

_"Couple 'a years I just walked up and down this valley, from the Salton Sea clear up to Reno. Just walked, because I didn't know where to stop. Dr. Levi taught me some healing, and I tried to learn more where I could. If I saw a need, I'd try to help. I'd say what was in my mind. But folks everywhere don't much want to stop and listen to themselves, not here any more than they do on your side of the divide."_

 _He was steady enough then that Heath could let go of him, and Sam straightened up. "I found this spot by accident, kinda like your outlaw there. Stuck my hand in that pretty water and dang near burned my skin off. Word to the wise, Heath. Those pools are hot enough to make coffee."_

 _"I'll remember that," Heath said, impressed._

 _"I decided to stop right here. I needed to stay. It was the first time I felt that way, ever, maybe in my whole life. I looked around me, wondering why, and how, and what for…and then I found that cave over there, and I been here ever since."_

 _"What cave?"_

 _"That one. Right there."_

 _"Sam, what are you pointing at?"_

 _Sam, chuckling to himself, turned, walked up to the rock wall of the gully - and vanished._

 _Heath gaped. The steam wasn't so thick it could hide a man, but he began to wonder if the vaporous air had addled his thinking. The dead man still lay on the ground. Otherwise Heath was alone. Was he imagining all this? "Sam? **Sam**! Where the hell -" _

_There was a shuffling sound, a rattle of gravel, a whisper of movement. Heath froze, on high alert, his body aware he was surrounded full seconds before he had any conscious thought on the matter. He raised his eyes to take in the sight of several Paiute men staring down from the rim of the gully, each with an arrow nocked and drawn and pointed right at him. Heath had no doubt there were several more such armed men right behind him, but he did not think it wise to look. He did not call out again for Sam, thinking his friend could either stay out of harm's way, or possibly outflank these unfriendly-looking Indians._

Unless of course I was hallucinating, and Sam wasn't here at all, _Heath thought, almost laughing out loud at that idea._ Maybe these boys are hallucinations too?

 _He was considering that possibility when one of the Paiute spoke, gesturing with his bow._

 _"Guns. Down."_

 _Heath sighed._

There's at least eight of them, _he concluded._ I'd be a pincushion in seconds if I try anything.

 _Frowning, he laid his rifle and gun belt carefully on the ground and straightened up._

I might end up a pincushion anyway _, he fumed._ Why the hell did I sign up for this? Why didn't I just go fishing like I planned?

 _A weighty silence hung over the group as they studied each other. The steaming pools hissed quietly in the dark behind Heath. He raised his hands. "Friend?" he said, quietly._

 _The Paiute reacted not at all; their arrows did not waver from their target. Heath swallowed dryly, tasting the sulfur in the air. He drew breath to try again, but Sam interrupted him, speaking from some unseen place off to his right._

 _"White folks avoid this stretch, I've noticed. I reckon they think it's a devilish place."_

 _Heath searched the deepening dusk for the source of the voice. "Sam? Sam, are these Indians friends of yours? Because I don't think -"_

 _Sam reappeared at his side and put an arm around his shoulder. Heath, already so mystified by the situation, barely startled at this latest surprise. The Paiute, he noticed, stood down immediately, and began to approach._

 _"Sam. What the hell."_

 _Sam laughed. "Settlers and miners comin' down this valley won't come close. But to the Paiute around here, this spring is sacred. This band found me here. They were roaming, too, and in pretty poor condition themselves, it being just after the Indian Wars ended in these parts. They told me they kept circling back to this sacred place. They didn't want to get too far away. They needed some doctoring, and I tried to help with that, and they helped me learn how to stay alive out here in this rocky place. And now -" Sam raised his eyebrows at the Indians who had climbed down into the gully to stand beside him, "- now, it looks to me like I have a bodyguard."_

 _"What do you mean,_ now _?" Heath said. "Are you telling me they've never done that before?"_

 _"Nope, never. Only you." Sam shrugged. "It's a mystery."_

 _"Oh, c'mon -"_

 _"Yep. Only you. Now, grab your hardware – I don't think these boys will shoot you now - and c'mon over here. I'll show you my hideout."_

 _Sam had a snug, warm cave, the multiple entrances to which were so remarkably camouflaged by the sagebrush and the jagged, shadowed surfaces of rock that one practically had to step bodily into the opening to appreciate its presence. He had an array of remedies and a few tools, and a small, covered mud wagon that he appeared to be using as a bed._

"So that was three-some years ago," Heath concluded. "I spent the night with him and a few of the Paiute men. In the morning I loaded the dead outlaw on his horse, mounted up, and headed back to pick up Dunham and the other dead outlaw. In the end, I took both of the outlaws to meet up with Frank on my own. Dunham stayed put, and I heard he married one of those ladies."

He smiled, but his gaze now was distant and thoughtful.

Heath _could_ see it. He could picture the scene, every detail clear as crystal, and he gave thanks from the bottom of his heart for this peculiar ability of his. For all that his memory had sentenced him to a vivid reliving of so many nightmarish things he would prefer to forget, still, that burden was a price Heath willingly paid. Without such a memory, he never would have been able to get Teleli and himself down from Sonora Pass. And he never would have been able to find Sam again, when he desperately needed his help.

"I guessed the cave was about 7 or 8 miles from where we were camped by Glass Creek, but it was all open territory to cross to get there. We'd be easy to spot, for anyone looking for a White man, an Indian, and one horse - and for sure it would attract attention if the Indian was the one riding. I decided I had to take the chance and leave Teleli, go myself to find Sam. I didn't know if Sam would still be there. I didn't know if Teleli would still be alive when I got back. I rode out just after sunset."

Heath took a deep breath, remembering the fear and the crushing weight of so many unknowns, as Charger galloped into the dark; remembering, as well, the relief of finding Sam, of finding **_hope_**.

"We got back to Glass Creek before dawn, Charger pulling the covered mud wagon, and me hiding in the back. By the time we reached the creek canyon, two Paiute men caught up with us, bringing a pair of mules to switch in to pull the wagon. Sam and the Paiute bundled up Teleli and took him away. He barely woke up when we moved him.

"I told Sam where he could find your family, Rivka. He was on fire to go to them, to see your mother, that's no surprise. If it happened it wasn't safe to stay with them, Sam figured he could just keep moving. He was a wandering crazy preacher, right? No bounty hunter or sheriff looked at him twice, or wondered if a rogue Indian was hiding in his wagon. Sam could contact your family openly, explain the situation, tell them his route; somehow, I'm guessing, the Levis found a way to get them there quick. I don't know how. We'll have to ask them."

* * *

 _*Convict Lake did get its name from a deadly 1871 standoff between a posse and several fugitive convicted felons. Twenty-nine men escaped from the Nevada State Prison, and one group did commit murder, mayhem and robbery in the course of their flight south from Carson City. The rest of my version of the tale is fictional, so far as I know._


	117. Chapter 116 - Lethe

_Love, that comes too late,  
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,  
To a great sender turns a sour offence,  
Crying, that's good that's gone._

 _William Shakespeare, "All's Well that Ends Well"_

* * *

 _Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you._  
 _  
Ovid, The Poems of Exile_

* * *

 _Sleep and Death are brothers._

 _Diogenes_

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 3, 1875_**

"Hannah sent Jed and me out after you," Rivka was saying. "She knew. She _knew,_ somehow, that we had to go, and go fast – and then Ilsa said, _Take Nox."_ Eyes wide, she looked from Heath to Jarrod; she remembered the feeling of Hannah's hand closing around hers; the drumming of the mare's hooves on the mountain trail as they raced into the night. " _Hannah knows,_ she said. _Go as fast as you can._

"They were right. We barely made it in time, and we never would have found you, or gotten you out, without Nox."

"Ain't the first time that horse has saved my life. Or you, darlin'." Heath stroked one hand through her hair, studying her face with an intensity that made her blush. He sighed, smiling faintly, and held himself back from kissing her as if they were alone together. Her words demanded his attention.

 _Hannah knew. She knew, and she came running._

"And for sure, Hannah, that ain't the first time _you_ saved me." He turned to her and felt suddenly breathless with emotion. He had to look down and try to steady himself while he stared at the patterned deerskin mat on the floor. Heart thudding in his chest, and feeling not at all ready, he raised his eyes again to her.

"You remember it now, child?"

"Yes." He glanced at Rivka, and Jarrod, wondering what they knew. "I remembered –"

He stopped, feeling a familiar, distant rumble of approaching panic.

 _Calm it down or guide it away,_ Teleli had said _._ Heath realized what terrified him now was not so much what had occurred back then; it was, rather, the far more recent memory of the screaming chaos of his mind that had accompanied all that remembering.

He could see a corner of Teleli's medicine box protruding from Rivka's satchel, and he suppressed an urge to pull it out and hold it like a talisman.

 _Calm it down. You're here. Talking about this will help. It won't make you crazy._

Hannah was speaking again. "They don't know what happened after we got home, Heath. Nothin' 'cept for one part, somethin' I didn't realize myself until recently. I told Jarrod what I could of that piece, and it's somethin' you need to know too. But the rest of it, that's your choice; to tell it or not; now, later, or never." She sat back, watching the struggle rise and fall behind the blue of his eyes.

 _Why tell it?_ a familiar argument came to him. _It's over, ancient history. Don't dig it up._ _Just let it die. What difference will it make?_

"Maybe you ought to call it a day, Heath," Jarrod said, seeing the tension in Heath's expression. He could defer his own abiding interest in hearing the story. He gently slapped his brother's knee. "You look like you're about to drop. We'll all be here tomorrow. In fact, tomorrow I should have some word on when the rest of the family expects to arrive. You could wait till -"

" _No_ ," Heath said quickly, then paused, as if he himself was unsure why he was reacting as he was. "No," he said again, more quietly, his expression preoccupied as he sorted through his thoughts. "I – I'll be alright. We should talk about it – and I'd rather it just be you, Jarrod - and Rivka." He turned to Hannah, speaking now more definitively.

"Hannah," he said, "it's not just my choice. Right?" He would not know for sure, until he heard it from her, but he was almost certain she had a far bigger stake in the telling than he.

"That's true," she said, "and I choose to trust your brother. I choose to trust Rivka – and you. This story has been only mine to carry for a long, long time. I choose to share that burden now."

 _We share the responsibility. That is part of what cleanses the spirit, Me-weh._

Heath nodded, studying her grave, knowing face, grateful for her strength and hoping he could follow her example. He could admit her trust was making him nervous, raised as he was in a family that could not usually afford that luxury. He could not help but worry for her safety, but they were here with two people Heath trusted absolutely. He would honor Hannah's choice, and he would honor what she had done to protect him and his Mama.

But first, just to be on the safe side -

"Jarrod, do you have any money on you?"

"Some." Jarrod raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, wondering what Heath was about.

"Give me a couple dollars?"

Heath took four coins from his brother. He handed two to Hannah. He then handed one each to Jarrod and Rivka, and had Hannah do the same.

"What is this for?" Rivka wondered.

"Hannah and I have just hired you both as our doctor and our attorney. What we tell you is now legally confidential."

Jarrod chuckled and pocketed the coins. "Understood." Rivka nodded in agreement as well.

Heath began from the point at which he first saw the three men attack his mother and he chased them off. Rivka had heard this part, but it was all new to Jarrod. He found himself remembering Heath's reaction, back in November, when he spoke about the risks of having any workmen coming around their cabin, back when he was a boy. At the time, it was an explanation for why Heath had set himself to learn to fix most anything in the home, but Jarrod had sensed there were deeper reasons.

He did his best to let the tale unfold without becoming overtly enraged, though he understandably got snagged on some details.

" _Mitch Harper_? That vicious rat that took up with your Uncle Matt and attacked you back in November? _He_ led those men to catch you in the woods?"

Heath nodded. "Yep. One and the same."

Jarrod fumed. "I should've shot him in the other leg and left him to bleed to death."

"I hear ya. But you didn't, Jarrod, and I admire that about you."

Rivka, for her part, was acutely aware of a difference in _how_ Heath was talking about those events. She had heard the basic story: the attack, the flight, the river, the Indians, Hannah's rescue. She was realizing now there had always been a superficiality to the telling, as though he were describing events from a book he had read. She then remembered, with a bit of a shock, that this was the nightmare he had had, right before they left for Sonora. _Long time back,_ he had said, _when I was a kid, before the war -_ reporting it from a distance, so much so that she had forgotten about it till just now.

She thought of the moment as they lay together in the barn, when he first realized he had no recall of events after Hannah brought him home. As he began to share what he now remembered, Rivka suffered for him, and for Leah, Hannah, and Rachael. She stayed close by his side, holding his hand in both of hers, listening.

"You were way off in the woods, weren't you?" Heath was saying to Hannah. "You came back - but what happened then? I remember sinking that paring knife into one of them – and Mama, I could hear her – she – she was -" He broke off. It was so painful to say any of it, and he could _hear_ it so clearly. He began to have the unpleasantly familiar sensation of sinking in quicksand. He knew that feeling, knew what it was, now, but he plowed on nonetheless. "I couldn't see, but I could hear her fighting – and the other man was on my back, punching me, holding me down – I couldn't breathe."

He was looking at Hannah, but what he _saw_ was the blackness that had risen up into his ten-year-old body and swallowed him down. Deliberately, he inhaled the cedar-scented air of the roundhouse, focusing as he did so on the solid ground beneath him, and his steady, silvered awareness of time. Rivka's hand was warm in his.

 _Here I am,_ he thought _. Here I am._

"I couldn't save her, Hannah," he continued. "She was so brave. I tried to stop them. I tried so hard. But I was – I was dying -" He closed his eyes, remembering the men's voices, their laughter as they fell on his mother. _Go on, say it,_ he thought. _It ain't something they don't already know._ He opened his eyes and stared unseeing at the packed-dirt floor.

"They all said they came after her because of me. And then they came back again, and I couldn't protect her, couldn't protect any of you. Not Mama, not Rachael, not -"

"Hush, child, and remember it as it was. Just 'cause you _think_ some crazy way don't necessarily make it the truth."

As if he had just been yanked onto solid ground, Heath stopped in surprise and looked at her, his memories spinning back on themselves like eddies in a river. Then he laughed out loud and shook his head. "Miss Hannah, I think that's one of the wisest things I've ever heard."

She returned his smile. "I _was_ way out in the woods. Too far to hear anything from the cabin. But jes' like the other night, when I sent Rivka and Jed out after you, it was like I'd been struck by lightning. I felt something was wrong, and I headed for home jes' as fast as I could. Now, I didn't know for certain if what I thought was _real_ ," she said, winking at Heath, "but I sure as heck was gonna check it out. It's just as foolish to _ignore_ what you think, child, as it is to believe it's all gospel truth."

She grew somber. "And it was real, all right. Lord have mercy, so real." She sighed and met Jarrod's serious gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded as if she had made a decision, and turned back to Heath, Rivka close by his side. "You had killed one of them, Heath," she confirmed. "You put that paring knife right in his throat. And God forgive me for saying this about a ten-year-old boy, but it's a good thing you did, child. It was all I could do with the two that were left. We'd all three of us been dead."

Jarrod went to sit by Hannah now, as she described the desperate battle she had fought against two men twice her size. "I saw one man beating our Leah near unconscious – and I saw that other man – I saw -" Now it was Hannah who was struggling to speak her memory. Jarrod put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him. "I saw him kill you, Heath. I watched you die." She turned to look at Jarrod. "And then I got the shotgun, and I killed them both."

Heath could feel his mother's breath inside him, warming him, lifting him out of darkness. _Heath, my brave little lion…breathe, baby, please, please breathe…_ He raised a hand to his mouth, his gaze distant as his body remembered his mother's touch. _And Hannah_ … _Yes_ , he thought. It was as he had come to suspect. She had faced the violence and defended their family. She had carried that in silence all these years.

"Oh, God, Hannah –" Rivka was saying, tears in her eyes. "So terrible, for all of you…"

Jarrod knew, from the little Hannah had told him before, that the family had been attacked. He was certain it had been serious. He shared Rivka's sentiment. As the story unfolded, however, it was revealed to be so much worse than he had imagined, and he was struggling not to drown in the sense of remorse and failure that was rising up sour in his throat. He fought to push it aside. He needed to stay focused, not get bogged down in his own feelings.

And so, with an effort, he turned his thoughts to Hannah, and to the massive problem Heath's family faced in the aftermath of that night. He suspected he knew already what "great service" his father had done to protect them.

"I dragged all three outside," Hannah went on softly. "I was gonna bury 'em out in the woods somewhere, chase off their horses, and hope to God the law didn't come to hang me for killin' those men.

"Didn't matter none what those men had been doin', 'specially back in those years. A Negro and a bastard child ain't innocent to start with, much less they go killing White men. They'd 'a hung me, and locked my boy up like an animal."

No one disputed that raw truth. They fell silent. The cook fire crackled and sent a small billow of smoke spiraling upward, as a log was consumed and collapsed into ash. Jarrod followed the smoke with his eyes; it rose to the peaked roof, paused, and then vanished into the air outside. He turned to Hannah.

"You dragged them outside," he prompted gently.

Heath now was watching them both intently, aware that Jarrod knew something he did not.

Hannah spoke now to Heath and Rivka. "That's when a man came walking out of the dark, saying how sorry he was that he didn't get there quick enough to stop those men. Saying he was _so sorry about the boy_. I's sure he thought Heath was dead, but I had no idea who he was, so I didn't tell him different. He seemed broken up that he hadn't gotten to us in time. He had a big silver belt buckle that kept flashing in the light of my lamp, but I never got a look at his face.

"He offered to take the three dead men. Said he'd make up a story the law would believe, a story that had nothin' to do with Leah or our family. And that's what he did, thank Heaven."

Heath had gone completely still as he waited on her words. She continued, speaking gently, watching his face.

"That custom-made, one-of-a-kind silver belt buckle is gathering dust on a bookshelf in the Big House, Heath. You know the one." Hannah nodded as Rivka gasped quietly, and a look of shocked recognition crossed Heath's face. "One and the same, Heath. That man was Tom Barkley. It finally made sense, why that stranger helped us the way he did. I guess you could say he was part of the problem in the first place, but that night, at least, we were blessed he came and did what he did."

"He came back…to Strawberry? That night..." Heath murmured, wondering. He and Rivka looked at each other, pondering this new information.

"So Tom Barkley thought you were dead?" Rivka mused. "Then two years later, a ghost gallops right up to him in the form of a Pony Express rider. A second chance? He comes back to Morgan the next day, all on fire and hell-bent to square things somehow, no matter what the cost to his reputation. But not so hell-bent that Morgan couldn't convince him it wasn't true."

 _He who hesitates is lost,_ he'd said to Morgan. _Wishful thinking, I guess, Harrison._

"Morgan was a good liar," Heath said, still unsure what he thought about all this. He felt abruptly exhausted, and acutely aware of the burning, aching pain of his battered body. Straightening up with a grimace, he impatiently shook off the swarm of unanswerable questions and focused on the two people sitting across from him.

 _You mean everything to me,_ he had told his brother. _You. Not the man I never met._

"I'm sorry, Jarrod," he said simply.

"Me too," Jarrod replied, and Heath was glad to see some of the gloom in his brother's eyes recede. They both looked to Hannah.

"Is there anything we need to worry about for Hannah, Jarrod? Legally?"

Jarrod pursed his lips and considered the question seriously. "No…no, I doubt it. I can make some inquiries to be sure, but – our father was not one to be sloppy when it came to legal affairs. If he went to the sheriff to enter a statement about those deaths, he would have done it thoroughly and officially."

To their surprise, Hannah began to laugh. "Jarrod, I'm thinkin' even if I ran through the streets of Strawberry and _tried_ to confess to the crime, no one would believe me. Who would take the word of an ol' Negro woman over the sworn statement of the renowned Tom Barkley?"

She grew serious again as she continued. "We didn't feel like that at the time, though, not at all. We never talked about it again, Leah and Rachael and I. Never asked about it in town, and always afraid it would come back to threaten our family." She tipped her head to the side, her eyes on Heath, but seeing the little boy who stayed close by her side during the weeks after the attack. "And you, child. You stopped talking all together. For weeks."

All three looked at Hannah with surprise.

Rivka turned to Heath. "What -? Weeks?"

Heath started to respond, stopped, and then tried again. "I don't – Hannah, what – what do you mean -?"

A hunted look had come into Heath's eyes that Jarrod recognized, and did not like in the least. It made him want to scream in rage at his father. He clenched his teeth around the sound, bit down on the anger that, for a second, he thought would explode out of him. He closed his eyes, willing his fists to relax, willing himself to back away from the feeling. Rage served no purpose right now. He took a calming breath and with an effort, kept his attention on his brother, who was reluctantly asking Hannah to explain.

"Even after you was all healed up in your body, child, for a long time, you didn't speak, or play, or cry, or laugh. You'd do whatever I told you to do, but otherwise you'd just be still, like you was listening. Looking out into the woods and listening."

"Weeks…?" Heath was at a loss for words. His eyes searched the empty air in front of him as if it would give him some answers.

"Mm-hm, yes. Almost two months. It was summer, by the time you came back to us. Was Seth and his foaling mare that put a smile back on your face."

Jarrod gave voice to a thought that had crossed his mind before.

"Maybe – maybe you just needed some time to recover. You were a _child_ , Heath. A _small_ child. I can hardly imagine a more terrifying experience than what you've described to me, not to mention the injuries you had. Maybe that time helped you heal up. Maybe you were – well – hibernating."

"Hibernating?"

"I like that idea," Rivka said. "I don't know if it's true, but I like it. It makes sense."

" _Hibernating_? Like a _bear_?"

"No. Maybe like a squirrel."

"Oh, c'mon, that's – that's -"

Hannah had just told him he had been out of his mind for _weeks_.

 _Weeks_.

That was terrifying – but it was a long time ago, and he had to admit it was a bit easier to take, if the blankness had served _some_ sort of purpose. _Time to recover?_ Heath did like that idea – just a little. Liked it enough to give it some thought, anyway. Later. Right now there was Hannah to see to.

"Hannah, Hannah, Hannah," Heath said, his gaze far off in memory. He was hearing the slow, warm steady beat of that mare's heart; he was feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. "I do remember that foaling mare. You followed me down to the barn, in the middle of the night. And you brought me and Seth corn cakes in the morning."

She nodded as their eyes met, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"If I could get up, Miss Hannah, I'd be over there huggin' you 'til you hollered at me to put you down."

His soft, humorous drawl was so like his Mama's, though no one present could know that, besides the two of them. Hannah smiled, tearfully, her heart full with that sweet, shared reminder of Leah.

"I know it, child."

"Husu has been right all these years," he said. "You are the real hero of the story."


	118. Chapter 117 - A Thousand Forests

_Nor knowest thou what argument  
_ _Thy_ _life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.  
_ _All_ _are needed by each one;  
_ _Nothing_ _is fair or good alone._

 _Ralph_ _Waldo Emerson, "Each and All"_

* * *

 _Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Spirit will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint._

 _Isaiah 40_

* * *

At sunset, after that first long, emotional day back in the village, Jarrod once again suggested that Heath call it a night. His brother was reluctant to give in to the evident exhaustion that weighed more heavily upon him as the day progressed; he fought it, in fact, as if taking his rest might mean a return to solitude and oblivion. There was an affectionate but somber look in Heath's eyes as he studied the three of them, as though he were gathering up these memories of his loved ones against some future famine.

Jarrod could understand that feeling, certainly - this time, however, he would not take no for an answer. He knelt close by Heath's side with an arm around his shoulders, preparing to help him move back over to the deerskin pallet.

"Pappy says so, huh?" Heath commented under his breath, watching Jarrod sidelong with a humorous glint in his eyes.

"Damn right he does."

"Don't believe I been bossed around so much in my whole life," Heath complained to no one in particular.

Unseen behind them, Hannah and Rivka just laughed.

"Hold on to my shoulders, Heath, let's see if you can stand up." Jarrod braced himself to take his brother's full weight, as he swayed and nearly buckled back down to the ground. Silently, Heath held on tight and rode out the expected tidal wave of dizziness and pain as it surged through. Jarrod could feel his hands tightening into fists where he gripped the cloth of his jacket, easing slowly as his breathing evened out. Heath leaned his forehead against him and stayed like that for a moment, staring down at his bare feet on the dirt floor and waiting for the ground to stop moving. He straightened, carefully, and gave Jarrod a tired smile.

"Thanks."

"Anytime. Now get to bed."

For all his protests, Heath was asleep the moment he laid down his head. Lingering there, Jarrod adjusted an edge of the wool blanket, unnecessarily, aware that he, too, was reluctant to let his brother out of his sight.

Reluctant to ride away with a promise to return.

 _He could hear Teleli, translating his grandfather's words. "Most of my people fear the curse on him and want him away from the village. If now we must flee, I do not think we will bring him with us."_

It was an aching deep in his bones, that image, darkly braided as it was with his many bright long-ago memories of caring for Audra and Nick in their childhood. It ached - but it was easing.

He felt Rivka slip her arm through his and lean her head on his shoulder. "So glad you're here, Jarrod."

There came the sound of a wagon arriving outside the shelter. "There's my ride," Hannah said with a smile, rising from the cook fire and brushing her hands clean.

Jarrod rose to help Hannah into her winter wrap as she prepared to go out. She had taken to spending most nights in Sonora, staying in the small house with Moshe and the Dutch family. Moshe was frequently back and forth to the village with his wagon, ferrying supplies as well as the growing group of nurses, nursing students, and medical students who were working and learning under Rivka's supervision. Ilsa and Peter – whose health was rebounding dramatically - had taken to bringing Nox and baby Tikva to join Moshe on these excursions.

Nox' distinctive, resonant whinny echoed across the village. She was promptly answered by both Nike and Charger, enclosed in a paddock beyond the barn. Jingo, tethered beside the roundhouse, merely shook his head. Then came the fluid sound of Ilsa's laugh, as she called out a greeting to a group of children all running up and eager to be the first to tell her the latest news.

" _Oša! Oša Hi-yàkanik_! Teleli is coming home! _Kòte-jishik_! We're going to have a – a -"

" _Kòte!_ A Big Time!" another child eagerly interrupted.

"A what? What is a Big Time?"

"There is going to be a sweat lodge, and dancing, and food in the _hanjit_ – in the roundhouse – and games. And Haja will make a blessing for _inay'nik kochay_ – for coming home – for Me-weh, and Teleli. You will come, yes? All of you – and the baby - and _Sitikiniwa_ the flying horse?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Ilsa sang, "of course, yes! All of us!"

Rivka was listening to the excited chatter around the wagon. "It seems Ilsa has a new name," she commented with a smile.

"A new name?" Jarrod was curious.

"She is no longer _Oša Wakalali_ , the Weeping Woman. It appears Ilsa has become _Oša Hi-yàkanik_ , the Laughing Woman. And by that measure, Jarrod, I think you can tell Audra her mission has been a success."

Hands still resting lightly on Hannah's shoulders, Jarrod turned to look back at his sleeping brother. Nox trumpeted her cry once more; Heath sighed and stirred slightly in response, but Jarrod was glad to see his face was peaceful. Outside, the children began an impromptu dance and tried to imitate the horses' sounds. Jarrod met Rivka's dark eyes and smiled in agreement. "A success, by almost any measure, I'd venture to say. A success in progress." He paused, thoughtful, then asked, "What is - _sitikiniwa_?"

She grinned. "Obsidian. Nox is Obsidian, the flying horse. Husu tells it that she can leave the ground only if one's eyes are closed – but I didn't have my eyes closed, and as far as I'm concerned, she was flying."

"Do we all have names...?" Jarrod suddenly remembered Malila informing him that his brother Nick was _Hopa'mu_ the Grizzly Bear.

"Go on, tell him," Hannah prompted, chuckling.

"You have a very honorable name, Jarrod. You should take it as a compliment."

"Really -?" He was skeptical.

"Yes, most definitely. You, Jarrod, are _Ta-chi Aše-li_. Big Brother Coyote."

He barked a laugh. "I am certain that was Haja's idea."

Jarrod didn't think he would ever forget that agonizing moment, as that little woman stared so narrowly into his heart and mind. Studying him. Assessing his motives, perhaps his very soul.

 _"So, Mr. Barkley. I understand you bought us. All of us. The whole village."_

 _It had taken a lot, but he had made himself look her in the eye as he admitted it, and waited on her response. Then, thank Heaven, her round face broke into a smile._

 _"Smart thinking, White Man. That was a coyote move if ever I've seen one. I wish I could go with you to see Morgan's face when you drop this on his desk." And she threw her head back and laughed out loud._

Jarrod shook his head, remembering the relief he had felt, and bemused at the strange path along which Audra's "mission" had led them all. "Husu did say the coyote is the cleverest of spirits. A trickster. Coyote created human beings, and then stole the sun to keep us all warm." He laughed. "Big Brother Coyote. Maybe I'll engrave that on my shingle."

"Well, Hannah has the most venerable name, truly. Husu dreamed it, he said, and he wasn't joking. He told Haja, and she said she had dreamed the same. It was very serious."

"What is it?"

"Hannah is _Amà-chi Wati-ka_. Acorn Grandmother."

"Acorn?" Jarrod wondered.

"Think about it," Rivka said. "Husu has always called her the brown-skinned woman. The acorn is small, and strong, and brown. In his dream, Husu saw Hannah in the village after the burning – after all the village granaries had been destroyed. She had saved three acorns in her hand. She gave one to Husu, one to Teleli, and one to Me-weh, so they could be strong and survive. In the dream, Hannah told them: _One acorn is all you need. Plant it, care for it, and it will become a forest, a home for many._

"In Haja's dream, she didn't see Hannah, but she had a dream about Husu. She saw him planting an acorn. The acorn grew into a big tree and rained acorns on the ground, and the village rose out of the earth around him full of children. Haja says the acorn is loved by squirrels and by all the people because she is the heart of their sustenance, a gift from the earth."

"That suits you, Hannah. Absolutely."

"I just hope I can find a way to make those acorns taste better," Hannah laughed.

* * *

As he left the roundhouse that first night with Rivka and Hannah, Jarrod was briefly alarmed to see three silent, silver-and-green painted figures emerge from the dark to approach the shelter. Rivka placed a hand on his arm and spoke quietly.

"Those are Teleli's companions. The Ghost Dancers. They have been keeping watch over Heath since we pulled him out of the river. They carried him back here. They will stay by him."

He watched the men enter the roundhouse without a sound or a word. Rivka nodded again reassuringly. Jarrod climbed up on Jingo, and headed toward the gate with Moshe's wagon.

* * *

Over the next few days, Jarrod settled into something of a routine, busy yet peaceful. Back in Sonora he took a suite of rooms at the now familiar City Hotel. They served him as both an office and a place to sleep at night. He would rise early to find Jed making his morning rounds along Washington Street. As before, Jarrod found him to be observant, intelligent, and responsible, with a laconic sense of humor and a willingness to be a sounding board for Jarrod's ideas and concerns; further, Jed held a deep attachment to those people he loved or considered family, and the affection and admiration he felt for Heath was always in evidence. They fell into a habit of taking a cup of coffee together on the front porch of the hotel, their conversation roaming easily over a wide range of subjects from the abstract to banal.

Jarrod spent the mornings attending to the legal tasks he had assigned himself, and visiting with Raul and "Nox's family", as he had come to think of them; midday found him riding down to Sutamasina to see Heath, talk with Haja and Husu about village affairs, and admire Rivka's developing health center. By nightfall he would return to Sonora to write, trying to put down on paper everything he – and Heath – wanted the family to know. It took several days, and it wasn't truly finished, but it was the best he could do by the time he gave the thick envelope to Jim Roberts with a request that it be delivered personally to the ranch.

* * *

 _ **Barkley Ranch, January 6, 1874**_

 _Holy Moses, that's a big house._

Jim Roberts swallowed with uncharacteristic nervousness as he rode under the ornate entry gate of the Barkleys' home. Trying not to gape as he approached the columned veranda, he found he had a new and profound respect for the _cojones_ of his boss and mentor, Marshal John Smith, who came and courted the woman he loved, undeterred even by – _**this**_.

 _I knew they were wealthy, and powerful, and held one of the biggest spreads in the state, but – my goodness._

It was a home, clearly, and in some ways that made it more intimidating; it called the visitor to understand that such grandeur was the stuff of daily life for the Barkleys. Roberts whistled softly, grateful that this evident power lay in the hands of an honorable, goodhearted, brave family. This fact he knew from personal experience, and the reminder helped him settle himself down.

And lived-in it certainly was. He could hear a vigorous debate underway as he dismounted and tethered his horse beside the walkway to the front door.

"I'm perfectly capable of riding up there myself!"

"There is no way you're riding 40 miles to Sonora alone, Miss Barkley. Absolutely not. Not until I can go with you, and that's going to be at least another few days."

"A few _**days**_? I'm not waiting that long."

"Don't you think I want to get up there just as badly as you do? Believe me, I do – but I have to be sure the dam at San Domingo is going to hold. If it doesn't, the whole southeast range could be flooded."

"San Domingo is on the way to Sonora! Ride with me and check it out on the way."

"Exactly. Your easy trail to Sonora, Audra, might end up underwater!"

"I'm 17 years old, Nick, and I don't need your approval."

"You might not need Nick's approval, Audra, but you most certainly do need mine – and, more importantly, your mother's."

That was Smith. Roberts smiled at the sound of his voice; it was so familiar, albeit hoarse and lacking its usual strength. That was no surprise: Roberts had received reports on the violent events in Sacramento, and he had not expected to find the marshal up and around, much less attempting to wrangle his headstrong stepdaughter. Still, hearing that tone of command he knew so well - but directed instead at a teenage girl – well, Roberts couldn't help but laugh and shake his head as he made his way up the walk.

 _And she's not just a run-of-the-mill teenage girl, now, is she?_ Roberts needed no reminder on that account. He could picture vividly the first time he laid eyes on Audra Barkley - and every other time since, for that matter.

He remembered in particular an afternoon in Carson City, when he had escorted Audra into the prison block to visit with her brother. Heath had been low that day – but _**really**_ low. Recovering from pneumonia; stir-crazy and pacing the walls in his prison cell; the subject of vicious calumny in the local papers; with nothing but bad news from the grand jury hearing his case: Barkley was exhausted, beaten down, and as close to giving up as Roberts had ever seen him. So close, in fact, that the deputy marshal, for the first time, began seriously to consider the need for a suicide watch.

Audra saw all of that in an instant, the moment Roberts brought her into the cell. He watched from a polite distance as, with a mysterious alchemy of love, empathy, contrariness, gumption, and flirtation, Miss Barkley reached into Hell and drew her ailing half-brother back up to the land of the living.

A few days after that, Roberts rode with this family into a full-fledged gunfight, taking on a gang of murderous, heavily armed kidnappers who had pinned down Smith and her injured brother behind a Carson City farmhouse. That day, Roberts saw a very different aspect of the lovely and compassionate Barkley daughter, as she and her formidable mother held the high ground on their flank, wielding their Winchester rifles with deadly efficiency.

No, not just a run-of-the-mill teenage girl. Not at all.

"John -" A hint of tears in Audra's voice now – just a hint – "I know Jarrod's with him, and Rivka, and Hannah – but I haven't seen him for over a month! And it's almost his birthday. I bet none of you remembered that."

 _Ouch. Good luck with that, Chief,_ Roberts thought, smiling. _You're a brave, brave man._ He wondered briefly if he should wait, but decided instead to offer his boss some respite with an interruption. He raised his hand to rap on the massive front door.

"I didn't know that, I'll admit, Audra," Smith was saying seriously. "I'm certain, however, that Jarrod -" He broke off at the knock on the door. Roberts heard him walk into the foyer. The door was opened by a middle-aged, immaculately dressed Negro man.

"May I help you?'' he inquired pleasantly.

Before Roberts could answer, Smith appeared at his shoulder.

"Silas, who's at the - Roberts? What are you doing here? C'mon in."

"How do, Chief," Roberts said, offering Smith a salute before removing his hat and stepping inside. He murmured a thank you to Silas, and declined his offer to take his coat and hat. He could hear the argument continuing unseen in a room behind ornate double doors to his right.

"I was up there for two weeks helping Peter and Ilsa get moved in, and helping Rivka in the village, without your supervision, or anyone else's."

"That may be, but you didn't ride there by yourself, Audra, and you're not going to now."

Roberts carefully suppressed a smile and responded to his boss' question. "Archer and the circuit judge had some errands for me in Stockton, sir, and Jarrod asked me to bring this to the ranch." He handed Smith a thick letter in an envelope.

"I'm surprised Raul didn't send Jed," Smith commented, looking at the envelope, but leaving it unopened for the moment.

"Well, it was my call. I'm still covering for Raul while he heals up, and Jed - he still wants to stay close, I think."

In fact, Jed had seemed frankly anxious at the suggestion he ride down here. Roberts thought that was odd, but for some reason he didn't pull rank and order Jed to go. He just saddled up himself and headed north.

After a few introspective hours on the trail – where his best thinking was always done - Roberts finally conceded: he didn't order Jed to make this trip, because he himself was hoping to see Audra. After a few more hours of debate with himself over the hazards and plain foolishness of that idea, Roberts had decided - tentatively - that the safest course would be to ask her parents for permission to call on her.

Then he arrived at the house, and the young deputy marshal promptly realized he was completely at a loss how to proceed. There was the young lady in question, undaunted and going nose-to-nose with Nick Barkley, who was one of the toughest buckaroos Roberts had ever met. There was her stepfather, who was not only Roberts' boss; he was the renowned Marshal John Smith; and he appeared to be taking his new familial position quite seriously.

There was this _**house**_.

And then, of course, over and above it all, there was the Lady of the house. Roberts really hadn't let himself think about that just yet.

For at least the tenth time that day, Roberts berated himself for a fool.

He reminded himself, however, that he had managed to state his purpose to Marshal Smith with some degree of professional bearing. Roberts decided to call that progress, a good first step; on the strength of that confidence, he felt ready to chance a look around the foyer. It was, unfortunately, even more impressive than the outside of the house.

He was saved the embarrassment of gawking peasant-like at the chandelier and the arching, ornate woodwork by the appearance of Mrs. Barkley-Smith. She descended the staircase gracefully in a beautiful light blue dress of embroidered silk. He moved a few paces toward the foot of the stair as she arrived to the foyer. She greeted him warmly. He bowed respectfully over her hand, marveling at her ladylike presence.

"Ma'am," he said, as he straightened up and returned her smile. "It's a pleasure to see you in this other -" he gestured around them, "- element. It suits you beautifully, and vice versa."

She laughed, pleased with his flattery. "I thank you, Deputy. We've been accustomed to meet under somewhat rougher circumstances."

"Rough indeed, in which you were equally impressive, ma'am," he replied with all honesty. "And please, call me Jim."

"We've heard a great deal about the investigative work you did, Jim. You should be very proud. The evidence you uncovered completely shifted the tide…not to mention the help you gave John in Sacramento. I can't tell you how grateful we are. Do you have news for us about Heath, and Jarrod, and the village? Can you tell us how everyone is doing? We've only had a few wires from Jarrod. I'm so glad you've brought us a letter. I do hope you'll stay for a visit. Certainly dinner, at least?"

"Of course he'll stay!" Nick boomed, throwing an arm over the deputy's shoulder. "Good to see you, Jim. Can I get you a drink? And you remember Audra, of course. It's hard to believe this stubborn, argumentative young lady is my baby sister."

"Stubborn and argumentative? I can't imagine where she would have learned that. Not in this family, certainly."

Roberts' straight-faced sarcasm left his mouth before he could school himself to shut up. There was a brief, surprised silence in the foyer. He turned, wincing, to Mrs. Barkley-Smith.

"I – ah – my apologies, ma'am. My sense of humor is a little out of line sometimes, I know." He glanced apprehensively at Marshal Smith. "Sorry, boss. I'm sure you don't cotton to your deputy being a smart-a-– um – that is, speaking inappropriately around your family."

John merely raised his eyebrows and remained silent. Victoria suppressed a grin and accepted the apology with grace. Nick just laughed and conceded the point. Audra, on the other hand, sensed an ally.

"I think you make a good point, Mr. Roberts," Audra said in his defense. She took his hand briefly in greeting; her smile made his heart race and jumbled his thoughts.

"We're all of us stubborn and opinionated," she continued, "but they expect me to live by different rules."

 _Uh oh,_ he thought. _Who needs the respite now?_

"Stubborn and opinionated," he heard himself saying, "is often a label applied to people who are loyal and courageous."

Smith cleared his throat and straightened to his full height. Behind him, Roberts could hear the creak of leather as Nick drew breath to reenter the argument. He was acutely aware of the four sets of eyes on him – five, actually, as Silas had reentered the foyer with a proprietary air – and he groped for something intelligent to say that wouldn't get him in more trouble.

 _Safety first,_ he thought. _Always a good idea where daughters are concerned._

"I – ah – I couldn't help but overhear you as I came in -" he ventured, "and of course you want to see to your brother as soon as you can. As for Heath – well, I know from experience, Miss Barkley, your presence can do him a world of good."

This earned him another smile; he did his level best not to be derailed by it. He had the distinct impression that Mrs. Barkley-Smith was trying not to laugh at his floundering. He plowed on.

"Fact is, the same rules don't apply to everyone when it comes to safety – that's only realistic. There are risks for a woman riding alone cross country, not to mention all the flooding - and it is foolish to ignore that truth just for impatience. If there's no choice, OK – you do what needs to be done. You can ride, you can shoot, you know how to rough it and you know where you're going. But if you have the choice? It's always better to have someone watching your back, and I can't argue against your family insisting on it."

"Well, why don't I ride back with you, then?"

 _Great idea!_

 _Let's leave right now._

Those thoughts Roberts fortunately managed to keep unspoken. He had to say something, however. He opened his mouth, came up with nothing, and finally turned his eyes to Mrs. Barkley-Smith in a silent appeal for rescue.

She obliged him with a knowing smile, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hoped wasn't too obvious.

"Audra, let us not pressure a guest with requests before we've discussed the matter as a family – and certainly not before we've provided him our hospitality."

"Yes, Mother," she conceded. The sidelong grin she tossed his way as she left gave Roberts a lift he could feel right into the next day.

He shared an excellent dinner with the family - fortunately free of any serious hazards, or faux pas on his part. They learned from him whatever he could tell them about the state of their friends and loved ones in Sonora, and he, in turn, gratefully accepted their offer of a bed for the night. Finally, tired out from talking, Roberts happily retired to the back porch for a cigar and a chat with Silas; the family, meanwhile, gathered in the library to read, re-read, and discuss Jarrod's letter well into the night.


	119. Chapter 118 - Darkness Vanquished

_But when the lips I breathed upon_

 _Asked for such love as equals claim_

 _I looked where all the stars were gone_

 _Burned in the day's immortal flame._

 _'Come thou like yon great dawn to me_

 _From darkness vanquished, battles done:_

 _Flame unto flame shall flow and be_

 _Within thy heart and mine as one._

A.E. _, "The Voice of a Woman", from "By Still Waters"_

 ** _Sutamasina, January 5, 1875_**

Quiet days passed, measured out in bowls of bone broth and salve of hot peppers. He slept, he woke; he drank, and ate acorn porridge; he slept again. He could sit up and walk, carefully, on his own, but he remained within the roundhouse. Nightmares came and went, and while they pushed hard from time to time, they did not break through to shout and shake him in the waking world.

Through the nights, there were three ghosts who watched over him. He remembered their green and silver shapes hovering over him as he floated up from the flooded river; they came with the moon and danced around him, as the coyotes yipped and barked mournfully in the distance; the ghosts chanted through the long winter night, until the eastern sky began to blaze behind the mountains.

Late in the day, as dusk settled over the village, Rivka came to him where he sat leaning against the cedar center pole of the shelter. She hugged him closely, urgently.

"What is it, Rivka? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, it's just that - it's time," she breathed by his ear. "Haja says I must leave you now until after the ceremony."

He turned to look in her eyes. "You are so beautiful," he said. "I know I say that a lot. I can't help it." He kissed her, softly, then deeply, wrapping her in his arms and rolling down to the deerskin bed beside him. She sighed, welcoming the feeling of his weight, his warmth.

"I missed you so much -"

"Don't go. Not yet. Do you have to -?"

The door opened, and the three ghosts circled around, silent, somber.

"I love you. Go with them, love. Go with them, then come back to me. Come back to me."

 ** _Barkley Ranch, January 6, 1875_**

It took Victoria several tries to read aloud just the first page of Jarrod's letter. It seemed virtually every sentence provoked some sort of interjection, interruption, or loud reaction from one or another of the family – including herself. Furthermore, the few sentences that _were_ neutral and informational elicited expressions of impatience.

"Yes, yes, the weather, skip that, Mother, what does he say next!"

"Wait, what does he mean, _not in a position to see us?_ "

"Badly injured, is there anything more specific?"

" ** _Enough_**." Victoria held up a hand and looked around the room, waiting for Audra and Nick to settle down. John had a mouthful of questions himself, but he had quickly read Victoria's frustration and kept them to himself. She glanced at him gratefully.

"Jarrod is a thorough man," he offered. "You all know that better than I do. Patience, and I'd lay good money that he'll cover most of our questions by the end. Plenty of pages for him to do it in, I see there, V."

"Sorry, Mother," Audra murmured. "I'll try not to interrupt."

Nick grunted agreement and leaned a hand on the fireplace. Victoria nodded and resumed her reading.

 _Dearest family,_

Certain fragments and paragraphs stood out as important once the whole letter had been shared, and these were passed around and re-read, debated, celebrated, and cried over more than once.

 _I apologize for the rambling length of this letter – it was written over the course of several days. I pray it has reached you promptly and finds you all well and safe. I have been receiving your wires to Sonora. I am so grateful to hear that John is recovering. Heath has asked after him and all of you many times, so I'm glad to have good news to share. Glad also to hear that there's been no loss of life with the flooding. The weather has been mild here. I hope the danger has passed for our range as well._

 _As for our news: let me say first, please, put your minds at ease. There is much you need to know, but there is much to celebrate. What I will share with you, I have discussed with Heath and with Rivka. They have asked me to tell it to you, so you will know before you arrive. Heath himself is not in a position to see or communicate with you all until after the ceremony. He is sequestered for the time being, for lack of a better word. I will explain more about all that further on…_

 _…Heath was badly injured in the attack on the jail and during his escape, but Rivka expects a full recovery, eventually…more important, his spirits are good, and I truly believe this time here in Sutamasina will be healing for all concerned, ourselves included…_

 _As for my news for you, it is hard to know where to start, so I suppose I'll start with this: Rivka is with child, almost 2 months along as I write this. She is physically well, she and Heath are joyful, but Heath, understandably, is deeply concerned with the issues of legitimacy…_

Shock, worry, joy, and amazement ricocheted around the room at this news.

Audra went straight to _joy,_ once she heard Rivka was well and that she and Heath were happy. "A baby? A baby! I can't wait to see them."

Nick stayed shocked for a few seconds until he realized he was being stupid. Then he was annoyed – angry, in fact - thinking that the two of them, of all people, should have been more careful. _Look at the situation they were in. Heath could've been killed several times over, or locked up, or crippled, and then where would that leave **her**? _

A quiet, more nuanced line of thought tugged at him.

 _Do you **really** think Heath wasn't mindful of that, of all people?_ _C'mon, Nick_.

 _And what do you think would happen, anyway, when two people who love each other are trapped together in a deadly situation? Are you going to pass judgement, when you haven't been in those shoes?_

The flare of anger faded and changed to relief that Rivka was well and Heath didn't die; his thoughts then sparked up again into worry, because Nick knew his brother would want to make sure Rivka suffered no harm from this. He huffed and paced by the fireplace.

Victoria kept reading.

 _…he wanted an immediate marriage for the protection of Rivka and their child…Haja argued convincingly for delaying such a ceremony until he is physically and emotionally ready, and until all the couple's loved ones can participate...we have settled on the interim solution of common law marriage, the documents for which I have already prepared and filed. Copies are in the mail to Stockton for our records…under the family name of Barkley, I think you'll be happy to know..._

"Oh, thank God Jarrod is there to help him," Victoria said. Jarrod's words carried a wealth of comfort for her. She looked at John, who returned her smile and squeezed her hand. He too was quietly rejoicing at the good news tucked inside Jarrod's practical paragraphs.

 _Of course he wants to marry her – to protect her and the baby. Jarrod will make sure of that, so they can take a little time before a wedding…_ Knowing Heath could trust Jarrod in this, she could allow herself to feel the joy. She could celebrate. She laughed with tears in her eyes. _A grandchild, a wedding, a daughter-in-law..!_

Jarrod, clearly, had offered Heath the choice _not_ to take the family name at this juncture. The fact that Heath decided not only to keep the name of Barkley, but to offer it to his wife and unborn child, filled her heart with gratitude. She looked up at Tom's portrait.

 _Heath does not do this for your sake, Tom. He does this to honor people he knows and loves, and who know and love **him**. _

_You just got lucky, Tom, that you have such a man carrying your name._

 _And does he give you more than you deserve? I think he does…but then again, don't we all get more than we deserve? Don't we all aspire to be worthy of the gifts that surround us?_

She leaned into John's warm, encircling arm; she dried her eyes with his offered handkerchief, and felt a deep wound was healing, the beginning of both true mourning and true forgiveness.

She gathered her voice, and continued reading.

 _…able to get word to the Levis, but as it turned out, they had already decided to travel directly to Sonora. Rivka of course wants to see her parents as soon as possible…_

 _…so, family, you have been notified: there is a wedding in our very immediate future, so come ready to celebrate…._

 _…will try to describe to you as best I can the healing ceremonies and rituals the village conducts to bring their warriors and exiles home…very powerful…they took Heath away night before last…the Ghost Dancers are with him…I am told they are building the sweat lodge…_

 _…Teleli will join him there…Haja will do a blessing ceremony, once everyone is present…she seeks visions and guidance on who should gather in the sweat lodge ceremony with the warriors, so any of us should be prepared to participate!_

 _As you may already know by now, Teleli has been with the Levis, and with Samuel Green, the man who got Teleli safely to San Diego. That is quite a story in itself, but that one can wait until you arrive..._

 _…know it sounds strange and contradictory…you won't be able to see Heath when you get here, but you should come as soon as possible…he will know you are here, he and Rivka want you all to be here, and the presence of the whole family is more important than I can say – though of course, I don't really **need** to say. You all know that as well as I do. _

_I'll close with some of my own thoughts…I know you all want Heath home as soon as possible, more than ever, I suspect. I do believe that day will come soon, but not now, not yet… With all of the painful things we have learned recently about our father, as regards our brother Heath, it is easy to imagine that the distancing he seeks arises from rejection, or judgement, or resentment. I truly don't believe it does. It arises from a need to regain his own inner balance, first and foremost. He knows that has to come first, before he can be a husband, or a father, or begin to think about coming back to the ranch._

 _I have tried to imagine the pain of learning that your father recognized you as his child, saw disaster closing in, and then turned his back and walked away. Heath doesn't deny it: that knowledge wounds just as deeply as one might think. Heath has one small advantage, though: he has never held any cherished illusions about Tom Barkley, and so he has at least been spared the pain of seeing those illusions die. It is a minor mitigation, true, but I think sometimes it has helped him think more clearly about this than the rest of the family._

 _Speaking for myself, the remorse and familial guilt I feel continues to weigh heavily on my heart, especially knowing Heath was there, in my reach, and knowing what terrors he faced after we were gone. Time and again, Heath has told me – shown me – reminded me – that his life has borne its own treasures; that the family that matters to him is **us** , not a progenitor he's never known. Certainly he is ambivalent about living and working under the "Barkley name" and the "Barkley legacy". He is not an all-forgiving saint. But he wants to come back to **us**. He has gone out of his way to remind me that Tom Barkley was a human being, imperfect as we all are, and I wonder now about what burden of remorse Father himself carried through life, as regards his unknown son. _

_And while that painful history regarding Father looms large for us, it does not cast quite the same shadow for Heath, a fact I think we would all do well to remember, to keep things in perspective. When he came to us looking for work and joking about all the jobs he'd had, Heath had already survived Hell a few times over. He took a place in our home and our hearts that we didn't even know was empty before he came. The soil was still dark on his mother's grave, and Rachael joined her there not 3 months later. He kept all that under wraps, and none of us the wiser. But then came another visit to Hell, and he couldn't keep **anything** wrapped up anymore. _

_I remind you – and myself – of this history to explain why I agree with his decision not to come back to the ranch right now. He needs **time**. Time to heal, time to get his strength back; time to be with his wife, to work, and live, and just be who he is. Then - as he said himself – then, maybe, he can "figure out what to do about being a Barkley". _

**_Back porch, Barkley Ranch, January 6, 1875_**

Roberts leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the porch rail. He sipped the warm whiskey-and-syrup concoction Silas had made, and groaned in appreciation.

"Oh, my, that is tasty. Fella could sit out in the snow and die of frostbite with a smile on his face, drinking this potion. You have a talent, Mr. Silas."

"Thank you, Deputy."

"Call me Jim, please. Aren't you going to read that letter? It's gotta be something interesting, if it's anything like that giant document the family's still discussing in there."

Silas looked down at the slim letter Roberts had delivered to him just after dinner. "I certainly do want to read it, but I don't want to be rude, you being a guest."

"Rude? Not at all. Listen, if you want privacy, I'll just -" He rose to go back inside.

"No, please – Jim – please sit. If you don't mind."

Roberts toasted him with his glass and sat back down. "Read away, Silas. I'm going to lean back and admire that lovely barn over there."

 _Dear Silas,_

 _This is a letter from Hannah and myself – I'm doing the writing, Hannah's doing most of the talking, but I'll try to get a few words in here and there._

 _We both miss you. Hannah tells me you're getting pretty bossy what with all the time Mother has been away and you running that big house on your own. I hope you know how much the whole family counts on you, keeping an eye on the home front._

 _Hannah says she knows how you feel about the house. She knows you don't like to leave, but she wants me to remind you:_ you don't belong to the house _. She says you know what she means. It's just a place a family lives, your place of work. And now the family is coming up here to Sonora, and she says you should come too._

 _I'd like you to come too, Silas. You're family. I would never have gotten through those months when I first came to the ranch without you – and I mean that. You saved my life in so many ways, just being there for me with a smile, or a kind word, or an ice pack for my face when I needed it. Because of you, I knew I wasn't alone, or invisible. So I want you to come up to Sonora, to Sutamasina, because I'm going to be getting married, and I want you to be there._

 _Hannah also says she needs your help, because she still hasn't figured out to make this acorn meal taste good._

 _With love,_

 _Heath and Hannah_


	120. Chapter 119 - Ascent

_My harp is on the willow-tree,  
Else would I sing, O love, to thee  
A song of long-ago-  
Perchance the song that Miriam sung  
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung  
By centuries of woe._

 _Eugene Field, "Jewish Lullaby"_

* * *

 _When God brought home the captives of Zion, we were like dreamers.  
_ _Then our mouths were filled with laughter and our tongues with singing._

 _Restore our exiles, God, like streams in the Negev.  
_ _Those who sow in tears will reap in joy.  
_ _He who goes out weeping, bearing precious seed, will surely return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves of grain._

 _Psalm 126, "A Song of Ascents."_

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 5, 1875_**

On a hilltop in the far southeast corner of Sutamasina, Haja stood alone, arms outstretched. In one hand was a prayer stick, the tip wrapped in braided sweet grass and tobacco; in the other hand, she held a clam shell from the distant ocean, and an eagle's feather, both painted and decorated by her great-grandmother, so many years ago. She turned slowly in place, chanting prayers of thanks to the sky and earth, to her ancestors, and to the living and dead of her village, asking for their help in this healing. Aromatic smoke billowed gently from the prayer stick and spiraled upward around the small woman as she moved; she swept the feather gracefully through the smoke as she sought to purify the space around her and make it ready.

Near at hand was a pile of branches collected from the willows that grew along the banks of Sullivan's Creek. Haja had offered up a special song of thanks for the gift of those trees. The branches spoke to her of safety, and home. For the first time in two generations, her people were gathered in a healthy place with running water, not a frozen refuge in the high country, or an arid, barren, fenced-in prison in the flats. Her village could live in this place. They could build a sweat lodge, and sanctify it as it should be.

The sight of the willows made Haja want to laugh, and cry, and howl with joy into the wind.

When she found the proper spot on the hilltop, she knelt and made a circle of stones roughly three feet across. This would be the center, the heart of the sweat lodge: the pit in which heated rocks would be placed and doused with water to make steam. She laid the shell and feather carefully aside, and planted the prayer stick in the ground. Standing, she faced due east. Walking outward, she marked the place for the entrance to the sweat lodge. From there, she paced out a full circle, with markers at each of the cardinal points. Chanting quietly all the while, she steadily collected stones and laid them out to delineate the shape she had created: a circle within a circle, connected by a cross oriented to the points of the compass. She was winded and perspiring slightly when this was completed, but she moved deliberately on to her next task.

A small distance away, Haja repeated a similar process, pacing out a space for the shelter the warriors would build, with a smaller central ring for a cook fire. Finally, about thirty feet away, she used a digging stick and more rocks to construct a larger, deeper pit which would be used to heat the stones for the sweat lodge. She brought wood and kindled that fire as the sun sank down toward the unseen ocean. The smell of cedarwood filled the air. Haja collected the shell, the feather, and the prayer stick, and sat down to watch the small group in the distance begin the ascent to where she waited.

* * *

 _The willow hangs with sheltering grace_  
 _And benediction o'er their sod,_  
 _And Nature, hushed, assures the soul_  
 _They rest in God._

 _Crammond Kennedy, "Greenwood Cemetery"_

* * *

Rivka watched Heath rise slowly to his feet in the dim quiet of the roundhouse. He straightened up and turned to face the three ghost dancers, his expression revealing none of the pain and stiffness she knew still weighed on him. He studied them silently. They waited in an attitude of quiet, somber respect. She saw his chin lift and some of the tension leave his shoulders; he took a breath and nodded to the men, and they followed him out of the roundhouse.

 _Come back to me, cowboy_. She folded her arms and gritted her teeth against her intense desire to run and pull him back into her embrace.

The sunset blazed over the southwestern horizon. Outside the roundhouse, others waited for Me'weh. There was Notaku, and several of his kin; Husu, an encouraging smile on his face; Hekeke, looking fierce; Istu; and Kosumi, Haja's husband. A little further on, beyond the barn, Rivka smiled tearfully and relaxed a bit to see Jarrod – Big Brother Coyote – waiting with Charger. Beside him towered Nox, bearing Peter. Jed - whose trek into the wilderness and plunge into the belly of the beast to find Me'weh had quickly become legend - stood to Jarrod's right. This group of warriors would walk with Me'weh to the place Haja had identified for the sweat lodge. There, Haja would perform the purification and blessing for Me'weh and the warriors who would build the shelter and sweat lodge with him.

In the doorway of the barn stood Hannah, and Ilsa, with baby Tikva bundled in a sling against her chest. Rivka walked over to join them. Ilsa, being so recently with child, and Rivka, being pregnant, would have to witness the ritual from a distance. The belief, Haja had explained, was that the state of pregnancy or new motherhood, along with certain times of a woman's monthly cycle, carry so much deep energy that they can overpower the intent of ceremonies such as this one. For this reason, neither would participate directly in the purification or the sweat lodge. Along with the rest of the village, they would wait and be mindful as they prepared to bring their warriors home.

Hannah, too, had smiled to see Jarrod falling in step next to Heath as they began their torch-lit ascent out of the village. She had chosen to stay with Rivka and Ilsa, knowing both women were, for the time being, without their families. Behind them, in a far corner of the barn, Moshe could be heard playing a soft lullaby to soothe the various patients housed in Rivka's hospital.

Rivka entered the barn and spoke briefly with the nurse and her student who would have the overnight watch. She checked a dressing, listened to the lungs of a coughing infant, and gave instructions to the nurse, before she climbed the steps to her small loft. It was a sparse, tidy space; to Rivka, it was a home she had shared too briefly with her husband, and it was sacred to her for that reason.

The sun set. It was Friday night, and Shabbat had come. Rivka drew a small chest to the middle of the loft and covered it with an embroidered cloth that had belonged to her father's grandmother. On this she placed two candles, each in a small holder carved from smooth, rose-pink Jerusalem granite. Over her dark hair she draped a scarf of cobalt blue and gold that had been her mother's. It was the gesture of a married woman; Rivka had covered her head thus every Shabbat since she had shared this small home with Heath.

 _Come back, come back to me._

She lit the two candles and took a moment to center herself. With a movement mirrored by the women of her people over thousands of years, she gently swept her hands over the flames, three times, as if gathering in their light to hold close to her heart. She then placed her hands loosely over her eyes, her head bowed, as she welcomed the Sabbath; she prayed for peace and wisdom, for healing, for her husband's return and her family's safe arrival, and for _Shekhina_ – the earthly presence of God - to encompass them all.

 _Lecha Dodi, likrat kalah…Come, Beloved, and greet the bride, the Sabbath…let us welcome Shekhina, for she is the source of all blessings, from the foundations of time…_

 _Baruch atah Adonai, borei yom v'laila, golel o'r m'pnei hoshekh…Blessed are you, God, who sets the rhythm of day and night, who balances light with shadow…Blessed are you, God of Avraham, Yakob, and Yitzchak; God of Sarah, Rivka, Rachael, and Leah…Somech noflim, v'rofeh cholim…raise up the fallen, heal the sick, and keep faith with those who sleep in the dust…_

Heath, at that moment, was praying too.

He gazed up at the distant hilltop, where a fire had been kindled. He gathered from the murmured talk around him that this was their destination. His battered, aching muscles weren't murmuring, however; they were well on their way to a full-throated howl, and they were telling him it was going to be a helluva long climb.

It had taken a lot just to get on his feet and out the door without looking like an old man three times his age. Fatigue dragged on him like a clutching, heavy creature with too many arms. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Perspiration chilled on his skin as he walked out into the winter night air. He stubbornly decided to ignore the fact that he was already short of breath.

Heath could see the three women watching from the barn door. Beyond the encircling group outside the roundhouse, silent in the gathering dark, it seemed much of the rest of the village – from the youngest to the oldest – was observing as well.

Heath was praying, all right: praying that he wouldn't founder and fall on his face in front of this somber assembly.

Even more fervently, he prayed that he could keep himself on _track_. Here. Now. He could see, plain as day, the benevolence of these people around him. Still, a wind was rising, circling at a distance, and strengthening as it gusted and spiraled in. It came bearing whispering voices; it ran cold laughing fingers over his skin. It did not embrace; no, it surrounded, it suffocated.

This, too, he had to carry to the top of the hill, it seemed. For a moment it all seemed too much. He swayed slightly, fighting the desire, the need just to go to ground and stay there.

 _…keep faith with those who sleep in the dust…_

Lifting his head, Heath realized Rivka had left the doorway. He felt a brief pang of loss, then saw the glow in the small window of the barn loft.

 _Come, Beloved, awaken thyself, for thy light is come: arise, shine; awake, awake…_

 _I am here_ , he thought, hoping it would stick. _I am here. And I ain't dead yet –_

 _Go with them, love. Then come back to me, come back to me._

He turned his eyes back to that flickering watch-fire, way up on the hilltop.

 _A long, long way to climb._

 _At least I can see where to go._

He heard a step beside him, and a warm hand came to rest lightly on his back. Heath gave Jarrod an exhausted but grateful smile, and nodded to the unspoken question in his eyes.

"Present and accounted for," he confirmed - then amended in response to Jarrod's skeptical look. "OK, barely, but it's – it's just gonna have to do." He glanced longingly at Charger, then turned his worried eyes back to the rising path ahead of them.

"You gonna make it?" Jed asked, materializing without warning at Heath's other shoulder and startling both men.

" _Dammit_ , Jed –"

"Sorry, old man."

"Damn **_straight_ **I'm gonna make it," Heath muttered, glaring narrowly at the grinning deputy.

Jarrod caught Jed's eye and found himself grinning as well, amused by Heath's reaction. _Reminds me of what Heath does to Nick. Must be a little brother thing –_

 ** _That_ **thought quite literally stopped him in his tracks.

Jarrod stood breathless for a few seconds, as the two men moved ahead of him up the trail. A flood of associations, memories, impressions, and unexamined emotions immersed him, and he was all at once astonished that he had not seen it before. He was equally certain, in that same instant, that Heath knew, as did Jed himself.

Charger, wanting to keep up with Heath, nudged Jarrod hard enough to knock him forward a few steps. He hurried to catch up with his brother, calling up every bit of lawyerly and poker-playing experience he had to mute the cacophony of emotions roiling inside him. _I can't think about this now. Later. Later._

Heath looked back at him and promptly stumbled. Jed kept him from falling, though the rescue, it seemed, was almost as painful as a fall would have been. Heath groaned a garbled thank you to Jed and held onto the deputy's jacket for support. Jarrod reached his side a split second later. Heath grabbed his coat and pulled him close.

"Listen, Jarrod, I'm countin' on you to get me up this hill with some kinda grace an' dignity. Don't want those ghost boys – or the kid deputy here – thinkin' I ain't – I ain't got -"

"Ain't got the sense to ask for help? That horse is out of the barn, I'm afraid."

Heath scowled, though not with any real energy. Jarrod glanced at Jed. Later, he thought, later. The genuine affection in the young man's expression went a long way to settling his jangled thoughts. He shifted his gaze back to Heath and leaned in a little closer. "If you're talking about sheer bull-headed **_grit_** \- believe me, Heath, that you have in spades, and Jed knows it as well as anyone. So why don't you let that young pup help us both out."

They got moving forward again, Heath leaning on one or the other for balance in spots where the grade got too steep. For the most part he was making his way on his own steam, but it was slow going, and he stopped to lean on a rocky outcropping, sweating and winded. He rested his forehead against the rock, muttering his frustration under his breath and waiting for some of the dizziness to pass.

A dark shape loomed beside him, accompanied by warm, wet breath in his ear and a voluminous curtain of black hair.

"Nox," he chuckled, and they greeted each other with genuine joy. Heath ran his hands over her powerful neck and looked up at her rider with a smile.

"Peter."

"Heath," he smiled back.

Heath reached up to shake hands with the young man he was just now meeting for the first time, studying him with equal parts concern and curiosity.

"Congratulations," he said, tipping his head toward the silhouette of Ilsa and the baby in the barn door.

"Thank you. And also to you and Rivka, congratulations. And thank you – more than I can say, thank you – for bringing my family back together. We have been praying and hoping for your return, Ilsa and I, all this time – and Nox has been watching for you - from the moment we heard you were lost."

 _Lost_. The word unbalanced him a bit. _Not lost. Not lost –_

"I am – I'm glad to be back. I thank you for thinking of me, and Rivka." Feeling uncomfortable, Heath shifted the topic. "I'm sorry about your leg. You had a rough time, all right. How is your arm doing?"

"Glad I have recovered enough to be able to ride. Crutches are exhausting and slow. The arm – well – if it does not get much better I may have to learn to play the cello," he said philosophically. "I will at least have an excellent teacher." Peter's eyes grew distant with a hint of tears, but no sadness. "Such a small price to pay. So much to be grateful for, yes?" He smiled down at Heath.

Heath thought he might very well stagger under the wave of emotion this horse and boy were provoking in him. Nox once more dropped her head to pull him in under the blanket of her mane. He returned the embrace, grateful for her steady presence and the opportunity to hide his face until he felt a little more in control of himself. He cleared his throat.

"I'm glad you and Nox are coming along tonight," he managed finally. He stroked the big, glossy black head once more as he stepped back. "She's been a warrior, all right, and you too."

Nox pranced a few steps in place, then bobbed her head to him in salute. She moved forward up the trail. Heath watched her go, admiring, as always, her smooth, powerful movement. Her scars disrupted the perfect obsidian sheen of her coat; they sang of hard-won strength and survival; they elevated her beauty into something unique. He watched her go, and he was humbled by the path on which he found himself.


	121. Chapter 120 - Wreaths

_Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!  
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs—  
Things that are made to fade and fall away,  
When they have blossom'd but a few short hours.  
Love not, love not!_

 _Love not, love not! O warning vainly said  
In present years, as in the years gone by!  
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,  
Faultless, immortal—till they change or die!  
Love not, love not! _

_Caroline Norton (1808–1877), "Love Not"_

* * *

 _Better trust all, and be deceived,  
And weep that trust and that deceiving,  
Than doubt one heart that, if believed,  
Had bless'd one's life with true believing._

 _Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893), "Faith"_

* * *

 ** _Barkley Ranch, January 7, 1875_**

"Audra, what do you think you're doing?" Victoria entered her daughter's bedroom to find what looked like the aftermath of a tornado.

"What does it look like? I'm packing." She threw a handful of shirts onto a bedroll that lay unfurled on her bed, and began rolling it up as tightly as she could.

"Now, wait. Just wait, Audra," Victoria said gently, reaching out to take her daughter's hands. "Audra, please. Stop. I know you're impatient to go to your brother, we all are." She turned Audra to face her. "We're all going, as soon as possible."

After a brief resistance, Audra allowed her mother to draw her over to a seat by the window that gave a view of the side yard and the stable beyond. The fencing was still fresh and white from the coat of paint Heath had given it before Thanksgiving. The gate had come slightly off kilter on its hinges in the recent storms.

"Heath would've fixed that gate a week ago," she said, staring out the window.

Victoria sighed. "I'm not sure of that, darling. With all the flooding, I imagine if Heath were here, he'd be out pulling cattle out of the mud right along with Nick and the hands. But I understand your point," she added, when she saw Audra frown at her practical analysis. "I understand. I miss him too. Terribly. You know that, don't you?"

Audra nodded sadly. "Yes. Yes, I do." Her eyes were on the northern horizon, now, where the rising pastureland was emerging from the overnight fog. The distant roof of the new barn could just be seen peeking above the mist; Hannah's cabin, and the new paddock fencing, were still hidden behind the banks of drifting white vapor. "I wish he was here."

There was an edge to those words that cause Victoria to turn from the window to study her daughter's expression. The emotions she had sensed in Audra's uncharacteristically rough handling of her shirts - anger, fear, sadness and frustration – flushed her fair skin and roughened her voice. "We were supposed to do this together, Mother. **_Together_**. So many plans, so many things we discussed – I was so proud of what we were creating, so excited to be a _partner_ , finally, in something important to the ranch, something I loved. So excited to be a partner with **_him_**. I thought Heath felt the same."

"Oh, darling, he -"

"Did you know the broodmare and two-year-old auction in Modesto is in less than two weeks?" Audra continued, ignoring her mother's reassurances. "We were planning to go together. Since the spring we had been talking about what breeding stock we'd be looking for – I just got the most recent catalog in the mail. There are so many decisions to make. I've never done this on my own, not for this many horses. We can't miss this auction, it could set us back a whole year if we do. Or maybe I should say it will set **_me_** back a whole year." Her eyes, bright with unshed tears, hadn't moved from the foggy horizon. "Heath was supposed to do this **_with_** me. He was supposed to **_be_** here."

Victoria reached over and took her hand, watching her with silent affection. Audra sighed again and looked away from the window, dropping her gaze to study Victoria's hand, so like her own. Small differences, made starker by that very similarity, spoke to her of her mother's aging, and years of experience; it drew her eye to an image of her own future.

"What if he doesn't come back?" she whispered finally. "I don't know that **_I_** would, if I learned what he did about Father. Forgive and forget? How can Heath put his heart and soul and hard work into all this, when Father's name and memory looms over it all like a giant ghost? Father turned his back and let the wolves have him. What if Heath can't put it aside? What if he never comes back?"

She turned her face again to the window, a few tears on her cheeks. "I'm so **_angry_** at him," she said in a low, tight voice, and fell silent.

"At Heath?" Victoria prompted, knowing that was not the answer.

" _No_. Not really. You know that," Audra said, impatiently. "Father. I'm angry at _Father_. He always said you could achieve almost anything, when it was the right thing to do, when you wanted it enough. He _lied_ to me. Why didn't he find a way? How could he just turn his back? What is it he wanted more than what was right?" Heart pounding and feeling a bit like a runaway train, she met her mother's eyes and finally gave voice to the question that had lately been churning inside her and stealing her sleep. "And how is it for **_you_** , Mother? What do **_you_** do with this? Can you explain it to me? You trusted him. You _trusted_ him. What do I do if – when –"

"Audra, Audra, shh, I understand. That's a lot of questions. Give me a second to decide which one to answer first." Audra yielded to her soothing hand and did her best to calm down. Victoria, for her part, could see clearly the trajectory of her daughter's thoughts, and it made her simultaneously furious and very sad.

"You have some tough questions, darling, so I think I'll start with the easier ones.

"I believe Heath will come back to us, when he feels **_he_** is ready. When he is well. He will come back to us, Audra, because he loves us, and he knows we love him, and because he is not one to be chased off by a ghost, even one as big and looming as Tom Barkley's.

"Furthermore, there are few things that brought Heath more joy than the work you and he were doing together. He will not walk away from you, Audra, unless he has a very good reason. You, also, are well within your rights to ask him yourself what you can expect. You are partners in this venture." She was glad to see Audra smile a bit at this statement, though she felt she had to add a caveat.

"I say what I believe to be true of Heath, though I suppose we can never completely know the heart of another. Which brings us to your other questions, the difficult ones."

Victoria sat up straighter and looked out the window, gathering her thoughts. "I have learned, and relearned that painful lesson, as you and I both know," she continued quietly. "Tom, the man I chose to be the father of my children, failed in his courage as regards Heath – failed in a way I would never have expected or believed of him." Her voice caught, and she had to stop for a moment and regain her composure. She drew a deliberate breath and continued, for she could see that her daughter now needed a different kind of truth: she needed honesty, spoken from one adult to another.

"Do I regret my trust in him? Would I choose _not_ to trust another?" She turned back to Audra's tearful gaze with a searching look, as if she were asking herself these questions for the first time. "No…no, I don't think I do. I trusted him. He failed in this – I suspect because he was afraid of the hurt it would do him in my eyes, and – most especially – in his children's eyes. He so cherished being your hero: yours, and your brothers'." She laughed softly, tears in her eyes. "And so we learn another lesson as well. He did far more damage by hiding the truth, didn't he? In so many ways."

Audra nodded silently.

"It might surprise you to know that I think these revelations have been harder on you and your brothers than for me. You will experience this for yourself, I am sure, but in marriage, one quickly learns that neither spouse is anything but human, and quite imperfect. Tom was my husband. He was not a hero, and neither was I. He was the man I chose to live my life with, as heroically as possible, which at times was not heroic at all. There was so much I admired about him, but he _was_ an imperfect man, and to me he was not an idol on a pedestal. He was my partner, my lover, my friend. He failed, oh, yes, he did…he tried to rectify some things, as Hannah told us…and I believe, in retrospect, that he suffered deeply for this failure of his. I believe that."

She nodded to herself as she continued. "That Tom could turn his back on a child out of fear of the trouble it would cause him: _this_ failure, to me, is a greater betrayal than knowing he gave his love to another woman. You are an adult woman now, Audra, and so I will be honest with you. Leah Thomson is not the only other woman with whom your father lay." She plowed on despite Audra's look of shock.

"Leah was a widow, caring for him after an injury, and so their relationship spanned a few months. There were no other relationships of that sort of which I am aware." Victoria realized she had retreated into rather formal language, as if she were giving a court testimony. Still, this needed to be said, and she would get it out as best she could. "He did, however, visit brothels from time to time. I disliked it, we would argue ferociously, but it never stopped completely. It has crossed my mind from time to time to wonder whether he has any other children out there." She grinned slightly. "Given that we all are so fond of the one that did turn up…"

Audra, her shock dissipating, giggled slightly at this, blushed, and wiped at the tears on her face.

"I drag out this dirty laundry, darling, to let you know that the father you loved isn't gone. He loved you more than life itself – loved all of us. That wasn't a lie. He was human. Heath understands that, I think, better than all of us." She held up a warning finger. "That is **_not_** to say, by the way, that such behavior is remotely acceptable in any man who wishes your hand. Times have changed."

"And **_I'll_** remind you, little sister: I'll beat the tar out of any young man who thinks to step out on you. That's if John, Jarrod, or Heath don't get to him first."

"Nick!"

Her brother appeared in the doorway, looking thoughtful. "A very wise woman told me something once," he said, leaning against the lintel with his thumbs in his belt. "She said: the tragedy of a fallen idol is that it makes us wonder how we could have been so wrong."

Victoria smiled, remembering that conversation. _Funny thing, Tom,_ she thought. _Back then it was only the fact of your disrespectful libido that tumbled you off your pedestal, for your children and the people who didn't know you as I did. Yes, it hurt me badly to learn that Leah wasn't a saloon girl or a prostitute. She was so much more threatening to me as a "good woman", a young, beautiful, sweet woman. And I thought you were wrong for never checking, never looking back. But all told, you didn't really fall too far in my eyes. That failure seems so simple now, by comparison._

" _And_ …?" Audra asked impatiently, after a pause.

"And what?" Nick looked at her blankly.

" _We wonder how we could have been so wrong_. What do you do with _that_? What is the wisdom?"

"Oh, well, she told me it it's normal to idolize and admire people from time to time, but that I shouldn't follow them blindly, or believe in them instead of myself." He looked at Victoria for confirmation. "Did I get that right, Mother?"

"Well said, Nicholas." She beckoned him over, examining his face to determine what he had heard and what he was feeling. He smiled a bit sheepishly and kissed her cheek, then sat close beside Audra with an arm around her shoulders. She squirmed and frowned at him, but it was a sham protest, and she leaned gratefully against his warmth.

"I was listening," Nick admitted in response to Victoria's unspoken question. "I'm not as angry as I was. Mostly I feel grateful. Grateful we came together the way we did, like Haja said. Heath kept reminding me of that. Grateful." He ran a hand through his hair. "But I'm with Audra on this one. I wish he was here. We're supposed to be doing this together. I'm practicing depths of patience I never knew I had."

"It'll be worth the wait, Nick," Victoria smiled at him. "Look at the patience Heath had, working and waiting for **_you_** to come around. He knew it was worth the time he put into it."

Conversation drifted to them from the stable yard, where John and Jim Roberts were now talking companionably after their morning coffee. Nick rose and excused himself to join the men in the stable, but not before he had given both women a kiss and a longer-than-usual hug. Outside, they could see that John was still moving carefully, but with noticeably more ease and energy, and his voice had regained much of its usual resonance.

"I'm so glad he's feeling better," Audra said. She had tried hard not to show it, but she had been deeply frightened for John after his return from Sacramento. There was a day or two when the possibility they might lose him hung palpably over their home. She had been acutely aware of her mother's feelings in this as well – especially given the revelation that Colonel Morgan might also have had a hand in Tom Barkley's assassination. The plea – and the rage – had been clear in her mother's eyes. _Not again, please, not again._

"Oh, me, too, darling. So glad." Victoria followed Audra's gaze as it shifted to the young deputy marshal, whom John clearly valued and held in affectionate regard. Victoria had noticed Roberts lingering outside since the end of breakfast. He had been leaning on the fence rail, looking up at the house as if daydreaming – or, perhaps, waiting for someone. Walking now with John and Nick, his gaze kept returning to study the house.

Victoria tried to keep her expression impassive. "He's a handsome young man, I think. Jim, I mean."

Audra blushed, and scowled, which Victoria thought boded well for Mr. Roberts' chances.

"I don't know," Audra said quickly, then softened when she saw her mother was not trying to tease her. She looked speculatively out the window again, now with a smile. "Yes. Yes, he is. Very."

"More important, he is smart, honorable, and brave, at least in my experience. It remains to be seen, however," she added, "whether he is brave enough to court Marshal Smith's stepdaughter."

"Mother!"

Victoria grinned. She meant what she said before: she did not regret having trusted Tom, nor did she hesitate to give her trust to John, once she chose to marry him. She understood that in each case, _to trust_ is a conscious decision, taken in a world that gave one no guarantees. She did not want her daughter to close herself off for fear that the one she trusts will be less than perfect. That **_would_** be tragic, if that were the lesson Audra took from her father's failures.

Now, as far as this deputy marshal was concerned: at every turn, in Victoria's considered opinion, the handsome young man had stepped up and gone above and beyond the call of duty in the service of the law, and in the defense of her loved ones. He was polite, well-spoken, well-groomed, and quite intelligent. If he wanted to court her daughter – and if her daughter were interested – Victoria would not object.

Nor would she roll out the red carpet for him, however – she saw _some_ benefit to keeping the gentleman off-balance. It wouldn't do for a suitor to be entitled, or complacent.

Audra saw her mother grin, and found herself smiling as well. "If you think he's so honorable -"

" ** _No_** , you are not riding to Sonora with him," Victoria preempted. She might like the idea of Jim Roberts calling on Audra, but she was not about to get carried away. "Absolutely not. We will go together. John feels ready to travel, and believe me, he wants to see Heath and Rivka as much as you and I do. I expect the Levis will be arriving to Sonora as early as tomorrow. We may be able to leave by tomorrow, but Nick wants to ride ahead with Jim and check on the dams and the road conditions on our route. Two to three days, we'll be there, I promise."

She took her daughter's hands. "You will be able to visit with Ilsa and Peter and the baby, and Nox, and Moshe – and Deputy Marshal Roberts, I expect, as he will remain stationed in Sonora for the foreseeable future. I believe my old friend Raul might be considering retirement." She smiled as Audra blushed again.

She rose to go. "Oh, and I forgot to tell you: Silas has said he wants to come along! Isn't that a wonderful surprise? I think you could be a help to him, Audra. You know he doesn't like to travel." She glanced around the room, her mind already moving on to the many preparations to which she would have to attend before they could leave. "Yes, you can help Silas - but before you do _one_ other thing, young lady – please put this room back in order." She kissed her daughter and swept out of the room.


	122. Chapter 121 - Gradual Patience

_Again I looked at the snow-fall,_

 _And thought of the leaden sky_

 _That arched o'er our first great sorrow,_

 _When that mound was heaped so high._

 _I remember the gradual patience_

 _That fell from that cloud like snow,_

 _Flake by flake, healing and hiding_

 _The scar of our deep-plunged woe._

 _James Russell Lowell (1819-1891), "The First Snow-Fall"_

* * *

 _All nature feels the renovating force  
Of Winter, _

_only to the thoughtless eye  
In ruin seen._

 _James Thomson, "The Seasons: Winter"_

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 5, 1875_**

Heath readily admitted that he was not doing well at all by the time he staggered to the top of the hill. His lungs were on fire, he was drenched in sweat, and his muscles were shaking with fatigue. Pain was uncircumscribed and encompassing; he couldn't even tell anymore what hurt, or why. It just _was_. Now, finally, he was standing on the hilltop, gasping for breath as he stared speechless at the crackling cedarwood fire, and Haja, in her painted deerskin dress. She raised her arms and beckoned to him. He stepped forward, alone, to the verge of the stone circle in which she stood.

The climb, for him, had been an ordeal of physical exhaustion and discomfort. Worse, though, was the madness, circling out there and whispering, closer than it had been in many weeks. Jarrod's presence was helpful, but everything got harder as they went: the night wind grew steadily colder and more insistent, his muscles were in agony, and the hissing threat in his head kept pushing in closer, draining what little energy he had to keep going. He kept going, nonetheless, and kept the demons at bay, but for one bad moment - one _very_ bad moment.

He took a fall, near the end of the climb, at a spot where the trail was narrow and the grade down to the creek was steep and long. Heath had been barely slogging along at that point, one foot in from of the other, staring at the ground moving past his boots. One of the horses – he wasn't even sure which one – suddenly lunged forward, seeking a balanced purchase when an edge of the trail crumbled out from under their hindquarters. Heath felt the horse's shoulder collide with his back; he was briefly weightless and airborne; and then he hit the ground hard, rolling and sliding down the grade toward the creek below.

He wasn't, he soon realized, the only one knocked off his feet by the animal's unexpected movement. In reality it was only a few minutes later that he and the others were back on the trail. There was talking, a few groans, and laughter in the dark around him as the group dusted itself off and got sorted out to resume the climb. He focused on those sounds – stubbornly, desperately - in an effort to keep moving, and to ward off the mind-numbing fear of what had just happened in his head.

 _Only a few minutes._

Jarrod had made it down to him in an instant, though Hekeke got to him first, having fallen herself in the collision. He accepted their help with thanks, and even joked weakly that he intended to learn to cuss in Miwok, as various colorful phrases could be heard coming from others who had been knocked over.

 _Only a few minutes - -_

Those words had become terrifying.

A second of stunned emptiness as if he had been swatted off the face of the earth.

A brutal explosion of pain as he hit the ground, and falling, still falling.

And then the surface of the world around him was ripped away. The beast rose up huge and shrieking. It grabbed him in one crushing, clawed, greedy fist, and shoved him into Hell.

 _Only for a few minutes._

It had seemed like a lifetime. A _**lifetime**_.

Then Hekeke was there, helping him roll over and sit up. Jarrod appeared beside her, and for a moment all Heath could do was stare at them, confused. They looked just the same, the world looked just the same, but -

 _A lifetime in a few minutes, Yankee boy. Oh, the possibilities -_

Back on the trail, Jarrod studied him closely, worry in his eyes. Heath said something to reassure, but inside he was cowering and shaking like a leaf. He wondered how Teleli had regained and kept his sanity, isolated and on the run for so long. The Ghost Dancers were watching him steadily, a look of somber recognition in their eyes, and that gave him some hope. _Thank you,_ he signed to them, using a hand gesture Teleli had taught him. They nodded, silently.

On the hilltop, those three men came to stand beside him, awaiting Haja's directions. Husu approached as well; despite his studiously straight face, his eyes twinkled with affection as he faced Me'weh. "I am here to translate," he whispered with a slight smile. "Haja and these Chakkah will only speak Miwok during such a ceremony, that is, if they talk at all."

Heath looked at him gratefully. He did not think he himself could speak, so dry was his mouth, so utterly beaten and cowed was he, in his heart and soul. He would have been humbled just by the climb to reach this hilltop, lame as he was, but Heath had just now been sent to Hell and back again, and he was pretty sure he had learned his lesson. That door was always open. He had no power in the face of that terrible place.

He was dust, and he knew it.

He heard the low whicker of a horse, and saw Nox, riderless now, moving around the outside of the encircling group, the firelight glinting on her glossy coat. She tossed her head, mane lifting in the rising wind. The flaming cedarwood crackled and danced. Sparks flew upward, as the ash fell softly to the ground.

 _Dust. Ash and dust._

 _Teleli said it would come back, that it probably would. Not as bad, he said. Not as bad -_

Heath could feel Haja's intention, and the care and compassion of the people around him. He could hear that wind-whistling, chaotic blackness hovering just at the edges of his mind.

He could not demand or bargain, beg or bluff; not anymore. All he could do was hope. He lifted his chin, and straightened up as best he could. He nodded to Haja that he was ready.

At her direction, the three men began a chanted prayer of thanks and moved clockwise around the outside of the circle in a rhythmic dance, Heath following at a walk. The low thrumming of deerskin drums sounded from various places in the gathered group, strengthening the energy, and more voices and feet joined the chant. They circled the stone wheel four times, then Husu directed Heath to enter the circle at the eastern cardinal point. The three Ghost Dancers knelt at the perimeter, north, south, and west; Husu beckoned to Hekeke to place herself east; and then he accompanied Heath as he approached Haja at the center of the wheel. She searched his face with great concentration. She spoke to him in Miwok, as Husu softly translated.

"Me'weh. Were you lost on the way here?"

He winced at that. "No" would be his automatic answer, but -

 _That's not exactly true, is it? Just because you got back somehow doesn't mean you weren't lost._

He cleared his gritty throat. "Yes," he admitted. "Yes, ma'am, I was." He was struggling not to sway on his feet. He could feel sweat running down his back, even as the gusty wind took on a bite of winter.

She took in this confirmation seriously. Her expression was grave, and he suspected she knew something of the demon that had sunk its claws into his psyche. It was not good, what he saw in her face, but neither did he see that disconnected sympathy of a doctor who knows he can do nothing to help.

She continued to study him intently, then seemed to reach a conclusion. "West," she said definitively. "You are of the west." She directed him to kneel within the west side of the inner circle; she then sat down within the circle, facing him. A new chant and drumming had begun. Hekeke and the three men shook rattles, to invite good spirits in to help the ceremony.

Two prayer sticks at the north and south points of the inner circle bore braids of sweet grass that wafted a cocoon of smoke gently around them. On a flat stone at the very center of the wheel, Haja placed the shell filled with carefully crumbled sage and tobacco. Beside it, she placed the eagle feather, and two small clay pots of paint, one a deep blue-green hue, and the other glittering silver-gray. Heath glanced at the painted Ghost Dancers, and wondered what Haja intended.

He was terrified, he could admit that. He also could admit that in his current state of mind, he felt safer where he was than just about anywhere he could think of. Terrified, and grateful.

Her items arranged, Haja turned her focus back to him. He met her gaze as she gestured and spoke to him in Miwok. He looked questioning at Husu.

"She says, take off your shirt."

He looked back at Haja, hesitated, and then started unbuttoning his shirt, tensing as memories began spinning up out of the ground around him like a dust devil. The voices and all the eyes around him began to press in, shifting to something else.

 _"Get that shirt off him."_

 _Bentell_. Heath stared at the ground and swallowed hard. He could hear the dogs panting, and the crunch of boots on desert gravel as the camp commander circled him.

 _"It does not appear that the lash has been effective in correcting this inmate's disruptive behavior."_

"Oh, God -" Heath whispered to himself, fighting the awful, familiar vertigo.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he slipped off the shirt. Bentell continued to circle him, offering his shirt to his three eager, panting dogs.

 _"These three know you now, inmate. You try to run off, they'll bring you back to me in pieces."_

 _That was a good day. A **good** day, _Heath reminded himself.

 _Now I'm here._

The scent of the smoke helped him settle himself, and he focused on the drumming as it rose and fell around him. A gust of wind chilled his sweated skin, and he shivered, welcoming the discomfort as a distraction. He ventured to open his eyes and look around. To his left, outside the circle, Jarrod was watching him intently, and Heath gave him a small nod. Jed had come to stand behind Hekeke, looking just as vigilant. Nox, Heath knew, was behind him; he recognized her smell, and the way she danced in place when her feelings were high; she kept whickering softly to him and whuffing the air. It made him smile, knowing she wanted to jump in the circle as much his brother – his _brothers_ – did. Then Heath thought of Nick, and Audra, and he missed them with an aching intensity.

Haja was singing softly now, and she touched a flame to the sage and tobacco in the shell and set it smoking. She lifted it in her left hand, the eagle feather in her right. She rose to her feet, wafting the aromatic smoke to the sky, down to the earth, and in a circle around them. Then she knelt again, facing him. He raised his arms to the side at Husu's whispered instruction, while the graceful movement of the eagle feather wrapped the sage blessing around him.

Setting the shell and feather aside once more, Haja sat back on her heels and stared at him with a different kind of intensity. Her eyes moved over the scars that wrapped around his torso and arms. She dipped two fingers of each hand, one in the blue-green paint, the other in the silver-gray. She stood, and gestured to him to do the same.

"Husu, what is she doing?" Heath whispered.

"Shh, Me'weh. I do not know exactly. She wishes to know what kind of a creature you are, if land or water, and what your spirit totem might be. It helps to know this with any kind of healing. She is in a trance."

He stood, and watched her circle him in the firelight, four times, her eyes distant. Stopping in front of him, she reached out with two blue fingers to trace a long, angry, still-recent scar, running from his right shoulder to his left hip. This was, of course, the work of Harrison Morgan's sabre. The blue-green paint was a deep hue, almost black in the dim firelight.

Heath did his best not to flinch, or to imagine himself a gruesome relic of war to be hidden from the people standing around him. That kind of thinking still came easily to him, and probably always would, to some extent. With an effort, he kept still, and kept his attention on Haja.

She was circling him again, but now she was tracing her painted fingers over a myriad of scars, alternating swaths of silver and deep blue over his back, around his arms, across his chest. The paints were mixed with glittering mica and other minerals that glistened in the light of the burning cedarwood. He looked down at himself in dumb surprise. What she had done – he had to admit – was beautiful.

For Haja, however, this was not an exercise in decoration. This was serious business, and she chanted and talked as she worked: to herself, to the paints, to her ancestors, especially Papati, and to any number of other spirits. To Heath, she seemed to be mediating a serious debate, but as she came out of her trance and looked at what she had done to him, she just laughed.

"Husu, what is it? What is she saying?"

Husu was already imagining how he would spin this tale for the children when he returned to the village. Grinning, he explained. "Haja placed you in the west – that is the direction of inward-looking people, of experience and strength, dreamers, those who contend with death. She says -" He paused to let her finish. "She says you are a land creature, but you draw your strength from water. You flow, like water, and you give, like water. And," he added with a laugh, "she has painted you like water, as you can see."

Haja called him to kneel once more in the center of the wheel. The drumming rose again, and now Haja wrapped them in sweet grass smoke and sang up strength and joy for him, and for all of them gathered on that hilltop. He tipped his face up, eyes closed, and breathed deeply. Terrified and grateful, he was – terrified and grateful. _Me'weh_ \- he heard her sing his name as she blessed him. _Me'weh, Me'weh._ He listened in himself, and found that blessed silence once more. Blessed, blessed silence. Peace. A temporary peace, perhaps - but no less welcome for all that.

He smiled at the sky, as the snow began to fall.


	123. Chapter 122 - Primal Duty

_Believe it not:  
The primal duties shine aloft—like stars;  
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,  
Are scattered at the feet of Man—like flowers.  
The generous inclination, the just rule,  
Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts—  
No mystery is here; no special boon  
For high and not for low, for proudly graced  
And not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends  
To heaven as lightly from the Cottage hearth  
As from the haughty palace. He, whose soul  
Ponders this true equality, may walk  
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope;  
Yet, in that meditation, will he find  
Motive to sadder grief, as we have found,—  
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown,  
And for the injustice grieving, that hath made  
So wide a difference betwixt Man and Man._

 _William Wordsworth, "The Excursion"_

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 6, 1875_**

The group that had made the climb abandoned the idea of sleep that first night, as they had as yet no shelter to keep out the weather. What they did have was an abundance of fuel, and good appetites, as most had fasted for a day prior to the ritual. Acorn soup was heated up and passed around the circle, and the night was spent in companionable storytelling, good humor, and hand games.

At dawn Jarrod found Heath at the eastern edge of the encampment, washing up over a bucket of water he had carried from the creek. As Jarrod approached, he saw Heath rise to his feet, his shirt and coat in his hand, his eyes on the rising glow behind the mountains. The light dusting of snow swirled around him. It was a strange but moving sight, one that would echo in Jarrod's mind long afterward. As the sun broke the horizon, Heath closed his eyes and tipped up his face; the sun glinted over the silver and blue paint that spiraled around his body.

Jarrod knew well the scars that Heath bore like a second skin. They were histories, brutally written; yet here they had become beautiful, by an alchemy of honor and observance that ultimately had nothing to do with the paint itself. _He flows like a river,_ Jarrod thought. _The paint is like a finger pointing to something that was already there._

He called out to him.

Heath turned to greet him with a smile, and pulled him into a hug. "No worries, Jarrod. This paint won't rub off on you. In fact, I'm not sure it'll ever come off." He ran a hand over his skin to demonstrate.

Jarrod looked him over. Heath's hair had gotten long, he noticed, longer than he had ever seen it.

"How are you doing?"

"Sore as hell," Heath confided. "Ready to get this shelter built so I can get some rest. I don't think those ghost boys sleep at all. And Rivka swears they talk, but I've never heard a peep outta them." He could feel the weight of Jarrod's worried regard, and made an effort to answer his real question. "How am I doing? I think…about as well as I could hope, this morning. Better than yesterday."

"Couple bad moments, last night."

"Hoo boy, yeah, bad." The reflection of catastrophe in Heath's eyes as he called up that memory was enough to set Jarrod's heart racing. " ** _Really_** bad, for a minute there. But then, better. Much better. Quiet, even." He nodded to himself, looking out at the sunrise again. "Quiet."

"I'm going back to town today. I'm expecting a wire from the Levis – they should be arriving tomorrow, or the day after. I'll ride with Rivka to town as soon as we know which day. I'll be here tomorrow, of course. You'll be OK?"

"Yeah, I'm OK. You go on." He turned to look down at the village in the distance. The new shingling of the barn roof steamed faintly in the rising sunlight. He started to speak, stopped, and then held his silence for a breath or two, as a shadow of sadness moved over his face. "Tell her -" He tried again. "Could you, Jarrod -"

"You bet, Brother Heath. I'll tell her." He clapped his shoulder, thinking, _Too long in exile. Too long_. Their eyes met.

"Thanks. I'm glad you're here."

"Me too."

Jed also headed back to Sonora, though not before finding a few ways to goad Heath about being lame and elderly. Haja, Husu, Kosumi, and Notaku's marriage-kin descended to the village in the morning, as did Hekeke. Peter decided, with a certain fierceness in his eyes, to remain for the time being, with Nox; he put his leatherworking skills to use as the cover for the sweat lodge was assembled. All knew what the young man had suffered, and none questioned the correctness of his participation in this healing. The three ghost dancers remained, as did Istu, and so this group of seven set about assembling the ceremonial site.

The cedar bark shelter went up quickly that first morning. By afternoon, they had planted and secured the willow branches of the sweat lodge to create a dome with the proper east-facing entry, and had begun enlarging the main fire pit and gathering stones for heating. The stones were not chosen at random, nor were they taken from their locations without a respectful request and prayer of thanks. Many were considered and then returned to their place of origin, but finally they had a collection of 16 rounded granite rocks roughly the size of watermelons. After some consideration, Heath decided to avoid the rock-collecting task, and attend to the wood construction instead. Over and above the painful physical challenge of hauling big stones, the job itself seemed to Heath very likely to dunk him a slew of bad memories, and he was more than a bit skittish about that possibility.

Toward the end of the first day, Haja returned and blessed what the group of seven had built and collected. The crisp blustery weather kept Charger and Nox in high spirits; snow came and went in dancing flurries, never accumulating more than a few inches. Night fell, and Heath slept deeply and dreamlessly, as the wind gusted and spiraled around the cedar-bark shelter.

* * *

 _ **City Hotel, Sonora, California, January 8, 1875**_

 _"_ Ayln zikh, eynglekh! Mir hobn arbet tsu ton! _"_ _Hurry up, boys, we have work to do!_

Looking down from the window of their room at the City Hotel, Rabbi Solomon Levi chuckled to see Moshe Schoenberg, the Master violinist, shepherding his two teenaged sons down Washington Street toward the livery. He shook his head. "Now **_that_** ," he commented, "is not a sight I ever expected to see. But - if Maestro Schoenberg insists on making a living as a peddler – he should always have such big strong assistants. He should not injure his hands."

Solomon had wept unashamedly with joy when they were reunited with their daughter at the Sonora train depot, as did Hadassah and Rivka. The boys cried too, though they did their best to hide it. Over a meal at the hotel, in cascading streams of animated conversation, they had taken time to catch up on family news and stories, both trivial and important, and finally to learn what events had brought Rivka to Sonora and Sutamasina. Rivka introduced the family to Moshe, and was delighted to find that her parents knew of him by reputation. That meeting, they all could see, brought its own powerful undercurrents of emotion for Moshe. He gladly offered to put the boys to work, as he had some dry goods to load up and bring down to the village. As he took his leave, he embraced Solomon and Hadassah with tears in his eyes, and the three quietly agreed to meet together later on and talk further.

Solomon turned away from the window and clasped his hands behind his back. His expression grew serious as he regarded his wife and daughter, seated on the sofa. Rivka had told them she had something important to discuss, and now that her brothers were productively occupied, he and Hadassah could give her their full attention. He joined them in the sitting area.

"Rivkeleh." His love for his daughter – and his pride in her - shone in his eyes. "What is it you want to talk about?"

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 8, 1875_**

After a few days of bright, fitful snow, the banks of dense winter fog returned to the foothills, periodically isolating their hilltop like an island floating apart from all the rest of creation. Quiet prevailed in their small settlement. The Ghost Dancers said not a word. Istu, talkative by nature, was nevertheless young and silenced by his awe of the ritual time. For the first several days he did not speak unless spoken to. Gradually, he and Peter struck up a muted relationship around their mutual interests crafting and leatherwork.

Notaku, the big Miwok elder who had tried to kill Heath just over a month ago, was also a man of few words. Despite his gruff demeanor, or perhaps because of it, Heath had found they worked well together. Notaku was the strongest of them. Heath suspected that might hold true even if he himself were healthy. As it was, Heath struggled at every step. As they bent and secured the saplings for the lodge, or gathered and split firewood, or drew water for the camp and the horses, time after time Heath would push himself beyond what he could manage. He would start to fail, start to lose his grip, start to fall – and more often than not, Notaku would lend a hand. He would help, just enough, and nod, and then move on - silently, except for once time, on their second day on the hill.

Heath had spotted some deadfall on a steep slope above the creek – a small oak tree, actually, dry and good for firewood. He descended cautiously, testing his footing at each step. He wasn't at all sure he was going to be able to muscle the tree back up the grade in his current condition, but he figured he wouldn't know unless he tried.

 _At least I won't have to worry about dropping Rivka into the ravine this time,_ he thought with a smile.

He reached the tree, wrapped a bit of line around it to give himself something to haul on, and started to work his way back up. Acorns, gravel, and loose dirt kicked loose and rattled down into the ravine below.

It was hard going. He made a good start, but about halfway up his optimism faltered; a little bit further on, pain and fatigue roared up in earnest and tried to kick him back down the hill - shouted at him – and then screamed in his ear so close he could feel that hot breath on his neck, the weight of it all crushing him into the ground.

"Get _off_ me -" he gritted out. "Get off -" He fought to keep climbing, and let go of the line with one hand so he could reach for a handhold on the slope above. Anger rolled and flared hot inside him, pounding in his chest, a madman in a cage howling for release. The shouting in his ear became an insinuating laugh.

 _Gonna fail anyway, boy. Just quit. Give up. It's not worth it. **You're** not worth it. Stay down. _

He groaned with the effort, as his boots started to lose purchase and slide downhill. It was taking everything he had just to hold on to where he was. The madman howled for war, but the rage brought him no strength. It was an inferno that would just use up whatever Heath had left. It would not bring him home.

The sweet voice curled gently around him and tightened like a noose.

 _Stay down, boy. Learn how to stay down. That's what a good dog does. Make your life a whole lot easier._

"Shut up. Just shut up. No one tells me to stay down." He reached blindly again for a handhold, got his fingers around a rooted sapling, and managed to get himself a few feet higher. "If I can't make it, _fine_ , but I ain't quittin', and no one tells me to stay down." His breath was a harsh rasping pant. He dug in his toes, hauled on the tree, and gained a few more inches.

"Me'weh." The soft voice cut through the noise in his head and brought an abrupt quiet.

Surprised, Heath looked up. Notaku was studying him seriously, taking in the tree, the rope, the grade, and the man.

"I think you will make it," he opined, "though it is a big fight just for firewood."

"Yep," Heath managed between gasps for breath. "Big fight. You're right about that."

"Do you want me to help you? Or do you wish to finish?"

"Finish?"

"Your fight. The argument you are having."

"Argument?" Heath laughed in surprise, but then he considered the question seriously. _Was_ there something to finish here?

 _Just firewood. Only firewood -_

"I think you have won this one, Me'weh."

"Yeah?" Heath felt himself slip a little further downhill. "How you figure?"

"I wanted to kill you, Me'weh. I would have. I was stronger. You knew this, yes?"

Heath swallowed, nodded. He had no idea where the big man was going with this talk. He thought maybe it was time to lose the tree, get himself topside and back on his feet, because otherwise –

"You asked me to let you live. For the well. You asked – because of the well. I did not listen."

Heath opened his mouth to answer, but found he had no idea what to say. He tried instead to pull himself up a little higher, gritting his teeth against the pain that seemed to burn all the way to his fingertips.

Notaku jumped down, surprisingly swift for a man his size, and got a hand on the line. He took up the weight easily. Heath fell back against the hillside, chest heaving with the exertion, no energy left to do much more than watch Notaku and wait for whatever came next. The fire, the intensity of feeling in the older man's soft voice brought Heath right back to that moment in time. _I was there, White boy. Your curse has never left us. We have never had a home again._

"I drank from that well," Notaku whispered now. "My wife, my children, the whole village drank from that well. We all would have died otherwise." He looked away, the muscles working along his jaw. He focused for a moment on the line, wrapping another hitch around his hand to secure it, and kept his eyes averted as he continued.

"I watched you fight for Malila on the roof of the barn, Me'weh. I would have killed you that day. I would have killed her, and all of us. I have thanked Haja with all my soul that she stopped me."

Heath could see he was frowning – or perhaps just trying to control his feelings. Heath was feeling that way himself. He waited.

"I thank you as well, Me'weh." He turned back to look Heath in the eye. "I thank you."

He fell silent. The sounds of the unseen creek wove up through the trees. Then Notaku held up the rope in his hand. "So. This argument. You want to finish?"

Heath shook his head, a grin starting on his face despite the tears he could feel in his eyes. So grateful for the kindness, and so full of sorrow for all the man had suffered.

"Nah," he conceded, still out of breath. "I think that fight's done. For today anyway. I thank you."

Notaku nodded, a hint of a smile in return. "OK, Me'weh." He started back up the slope with the tree in tow. "OK. For today."

* * *

 ** _City Hotel, Sonora, California, January 8, 1875_**

 _I told them. I said it. Please God, let them understand. Please let them not be too hurt by this. Please._

Rivka sat still, her eyes wet, watching her parents faces as they looked at her, at each other, and back at her. Then, to her utter misery, her mother burst into tears.

"Mama, I'm so sorry I've disappointed you. Please forgive me. I love him – I love him as my own heart, and he loves me. This is what we wanted – eventually – not like this – our only unhappiness is that we've caused you pain. You know how much he honors you both -"

Solomon looked to the ceiling, then covered his eyes, shaking his head. Rivka lost her composure then, and began to cry openly, wringing her hands in her lap. She stood to go, reaching for her coat, and felt herself shaking. Nike was tethered outside. She would ride to Heath. Haja knew she had come to see her parents, and knew there was a possibility of conflict. Rivka had asked, and while she did not think it was ideal, the headwoman had said she would not stand in her way if Rivka needed to see him.

"I'm sorry. I'll go back now. I need to be with him." As she turned to leave, heartbroken, still she told herself, _This will heal, it will be resolved somehow_ – but the resolution came more quickly than she remotely imagined, and in a form she never expected.

"Rivkeleh, wait, no." Her mother crossed to her, arms open. She pulled her close, still weeping. "I am not unhappy. I am not disappointed – well, maybe a little. I am so sorry, Rivkeleh. So sorry. Both of you have seen too much death and destruction. You should have peace. You should have happiness. You should not have to snatch love and hope from the jaws of a monster."

Solomon uncovered his face and looked to his wife. There were tears on his cheeks as well. Their eyes met, and he nodded, acquiescing to some unspoken question in her eyes that only he understood.

"Rivkeleh," he said gravely, once she and her mother had returned to the sofa, "the day you were born, in July of 1852, was – and is – one of the happiest, most miraculous moments of my life. I sang praises to God for the gift of you, and I have done so every day since. Today is no exception – though, like your mother, I wish – well, I'll leave that for another time," he demurred, catching a look from Hadassah. He sighed and went on. "That was a frightening year for us. I met your mother when we were both studying abroad. We were both trying to travel home during the winter of 1851, and found ourselves caught in the midst of anti-Semitic riots in an unfamiliar town, moving from hiding place to hiding place until we could escape into the countryside. It was a terrible, violent time.

"But the greatest joy I had _before_ the day you were born, my daughter, is the day God allowed me to make your mother my wife. The day Hadassah married me. Our wedding day was a week or so after Hanukkah, in January -" Hadassah smiled at him through her tears, and reached out to touch the side of his face, gently.

Rivka was nodding. Of course she knew the date of her parent's anniversary. _Why is he telling me this?_ She frowned, puzzled, as her father continued.

"- in January, Rivkeleh, of 1852."

* * *

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 8, 1875_**

 _Creak – Whoosh – Thunk._

The obsidian-tipped arrow embedded itself off-center in the trunk of an oak tree.

Heath frowned, unhappy with the state of his left arm. It was painful at full extension, in which position it still felt weak, and not entirely stable. He took up another arrow, and switched hands.

 _Creak – Whoosh – Thunk._

Better. He nodded. Behind him, on a broad, flat stone, were a collection of obsidian arrow points and blades of varying design; sinew cords to reinforce and attach the arrowheads to the shafts, and various tools for knapping and pressure flaking the stone. He was reaching behind him for another arrow when a shadow fell across him. He heard Charger whinny a hello to the newcomer.

"Me'weh. Nice work. Even my mother would have been proud of these."

"Teleli." Heath stood and embraced him, overwhelmed with gratitude that he was well and home and safe. "Welcome home. Welcome home."


	124. Chapter 123 - This Wing'd Hour

**_Barkley Ranch, January 8, 1875_**

Silas paused in his arrangement of the lunch table at the sound of a horse pulling up out of a gallop at the front door. Setting down the plates and napkins, he straightened his jacket and walked briskly to the foyer. Booted footsteps were followed quickly by a sharp rap of the knocker. Silas opened the door to greet a windblown, rangy, teenaged messenger boy. The boy, who appeared both thrilled and intimidated by the massive mansion to which his errand had brought him, identified himself as a private courier, bearing two missives intended for Miss Audra Barkley. Silas invited him into the entryway. He had no need to call for Audra, however. She was already flying down the staircase and across the foyer in a whirlwind of blond hair and lavender silk.

The boy had certainly gaped when he saw the house. Audra's appearance, however, rendered him nearly comatose with awe, as the Barkley daughter (the stories of whose beauty, until that moment, he had been sure were greatly exaggerated) rushed across to him with profuse thanks. She eagerly collected the two messages, gracing the young man with a brilliant, dimpled smile.

Nick and Jim, meanwhile, had just returned from the stable, where they had been making preparations for the whole family to travel. Nick raised his eyebrows in curiosity at the scene; Jim chuckled and nodded sympathetically at the messenger boy's stunned condition. Audra had already whirled away, intending to read her messages in the study. She stopped abruptly and turned back, one hand to her cheek.

"I almost forgot," she cried apologetically to the messenger. "You must have something for the trip. I'll go get my purse."

"I'll take care of it, Miss Barkley," Jim said before Nick could speak a word. He fished in his pocket and tipped the messenger far more than he could have reasonably expected. The boy's eyes widened at the generosity. Jim clapped him on the shoulder with a grin and steered him back to his horse, then laughed ruefully at himself as he watched the boy ride away with almost half of his pocket money for the month.

 _Miss Barkley seems to have an injudicious effect on me,_ he thought, shaking his head with a smile _. I'd best keep that in mind. Might finally get the chance to take her out to dinner and find myself broke._

He was startled out of his reverie by a squeal of excitement and celebration. He turned back to the foyer to see Silas and Nick – and Victoria and John, now, descending the stairs – each looking just as startled as he, and just as mystified.

"Goodness, Audra, what is it?" Victoria exclaimed. "And who was at the door?"

"Oh, Mother, it's the best news. But it's a secret. **_My_** secret," she said with mock ferocity, looking at all of them with a teasing grin. "It's a birthday present. For Heath. Or maybe it's a wedding present. I haven't decided. But it's going to be **_great_**."

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina,_** **_January 8, 1875_**

"Welcome home. Welcome home."

Full of joy and relief, Heath stepped back an arm's length so he could see Teleli and reassure himself that the older man was truly alive and well.

"Husu and Hekeke – your children - the whole village – they will all be so happy to see you. You came with Hadassah and the Levis?"

Teleli nodded.

Heath hesitated as he met Teleli's steady, intense gaze. The Indian's eyes were bright – with what? Anger? Sadness? Humor? His expression was unreadable. Heath fell silent, watching his face.

"Me'weh. You packed me off in a mule wagon with a couple of desert Indians and a crazy man dressed like a monk."

"Well – if you put it that way -"

"I was gone out of myself with fever, and when I woke up I was hundreds of miles away. With a crazy man dressed like a monk. A **_dirty_** monk."

"That _dirty monk_ saved your life," Heath broke in heatedly. "You were getting sicker no matter what I tried. I couldn't fix it myself, I couldn't bring you to a doctor, and I wasn't going to leave you to die. You should thank your ancestors, or your smoke god spirit whatever, that Sam was out there and could help."

"My smoke god spirit whatever…?" Teleli looked down to hide his grin. "You are stubborn, Me'weh. Stubborn and foolish, just as Morgan said. You should have left me."

 _As Morgan said._ Heath opened his mouth to retort, but lost what he intended to say in the clanging echoes that Teleli's words had evoked. He frowned instead and looked away, struggling to think past the venomous noise in his head.

 _You survived. You convinced them that you were sane. They must know pretty well by now you're a mad dog, Thomson. One would think they'd have cut you loose, once that became clear. But the Barkleys are stubborn and foolish that way._

"Me'weh."

Heath made himself meet Teleli's eyes, his jaw tight.

"Truly I do, Me'weh."

"You do what?"

"I thank my ancestors, the creator, all the powers around us. I will thank even the smoke-god-spirit – whatever that is – for your stubborn foolishness, Me'weh. And for your strange choice of friends."

"Stubborn and foolish!" proclaimed a resonant, musical voice, and Heath had to smile. "Deputy U.S. Marshal Heath Thomson, **_y_** ** _ou_** are stubborn and foolish. So you have always been. I am witness to that fact! Praise the Lord!" Sam turned to address himself to Teleli, pointing at Heath with one big hand. "- even when he was so small and skinny I could pick him up and throw him like a sack 'a potatoes. And I did, too," he continued in confidential tones. "I endeavored to throw him, bodily, out of harm's way, when he was hell-bent on saving his friend. And do you know what happened?"

"He came back," Teleli nodded.

"Yes he did. He did indeed, praise the Lord."

"Sam. Brother Samuel. Thank you, thank you, thank you." Heath embraced the big, bearded man. He was still dressed as a monk, but he was clean, and groomed, and his monk's habit had been replaced by one much newer and in better repair. "I see Hadassah has tidied you up some."

"And I see the head-woman herb shaman of this village has painted _you_ like a china pot," Sam commented, lifting the collar of Heath's shirt to peek at the flowing pattern on his skin.

 _A broken pot, maybe_. "I'm not sure that's what she had in mind," Heath replied with a sad smile, "but you're more right than you know."

* * *

 _Suppose there is a city in the Buddha's lap_  
 _and his knees are the mountains singing._

 _Suppose feathers rejoice when they fall_  
 _from an eagle's wing, spinning and dancing._

 _Suppose nature is a map leading to willow trees_  
 _where spirits roam, speaking in old voices._

 _Suppose you can climb rocks like a billy goat_  
 _with clanking hooves and horns that curl for battle._

 _Suppose a path of buttercups and dandelions_  
 _takes you back to the mountain,_

 _Where you call out, "I'm home"._

 _Isabella Rodriguez, Second Grade, Kent, OH. "Home"_

"Teleli is here, he is on the hill, could you see him? There is so much fog. I thought I saw him…!"

"I saw them light the fire – Haja and the elders have gone up to bless him home – look, Husu is going too -"

"Husu, are you going up now? When will be the sweat lodge? Tomorrow? And then we will have a Big Time, yes?"

"Is Me'weh still painted like a river?"

Husu laughed and fielded the children's barrage of eager questions as best he could, while he gathered up his drum and his cloak and moved toward the climbing trail to the hilltop. He was as excited as they to embrace his brother and welcome him home. As he began the hike the children fell away and ran back to the barn, where Hannah and Ilsa gathered them in and put them to work grinding acorns. Casting his eye over the village, Husu spotted Hekeke where she waited with her little ones. He waved, and she smiled tearfully at him, touching her hand to her chest and then to her forehead, palm outward. The two children did the same, mirroring their mother. _My heart is full; bring my heart with you to Teleli._ He returned the gesture, then hurried up the hill, vanishing into the fog.

* * *

 _Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly  
_ _Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—  
_ _So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.  
_ _Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,  
_ _This close-companioned inarticulate hour  
_ _When twofold silence was the song of love._

 _Dante Gabriel Rosetti, "Silent Noon"_

Sunset approached. Haja and the other elders and even Husu were slow arriving, as a dense fog had filled the valleys between the foothills. They emerged from the clouds not far below the hilltop camp, where the Ghost Dancers had already kindled the cedar wood fire. Teleli knelt at the edge of the stone circle, waiting, remembering. He felt as if his heart would burst with love and mourning, joy and grief.

Haja came forward alone first and stood before him, tears on her face, the shell and herbs in one hand, and the eagle feather in the other.

"Brother," she said, so gently.

"Sister," he answered, in a whisper.

 _Kneeling as he was, looking up at her, it was easy to sink into the long-ago memory, when the rancheros stole him and his mother and his sister Taipa away from their village. He had been six, Taipa had been eight. Taipa had loved to run laughing with her arms outstretched, like the wings of a bird. It was the meaning of her name. Taipa…and their mother, so loving, so skilled and strong with her hands, so curious and joyful…_

 _Confined and enslaved on the Rancheria, they were to be separated. Teleli braved anything and everything to remain near his mother and sister, no matter the threats, abuse, the lash, or hard labor. Those small, stolen moments of love and light he felt with them were more necessary for his survival than the meager scraps of food he received._

 _He remembered, too, how fast he had run, and how badly he had wanted to live, the night of the raid; the night his father and uncles tried to free them; the night his mother and sister fell under the rancheros' rifles. Fear, and the acrid joy of survival flashed like lightning within the storm of his grief and loss. It filled Teleli with shame, as they rode away and left his mother and sister behind with no one to build their pyres and sing them up into the rising smoke._

 _For many years, all Teleli could see mirrored in his father's eyes was that shame and his father's mourning and anger – those infrequent times when his father would look at him at all. It was Papati, his grandfather, who welcomed him back to the village and guided him into manhood. It was Haja who had sobbed over him, mothered him, and wept with joy that he had come home._

Now, tonight, he was here. The drums and chanting and sweet smoke wrapped around him. Haja's voice was warm, loving, and familiar. The circle held them all and eased the weight of his memories; the circle sang of no beginning and no end, and welcomed him home.

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina,_** **_January 10, 1875_**

It was a cool, clear day. Everything was in place for the sweat lodge and the celebration to follow. The sun blazed like a yellow crystal in the sky, almost painfully bright after days of fog. Charger smelled the wind, then dropped his nose to nibble on the short winter grass.

Heath began his daily routine of brushing the horse down and checking his feet. As had also become routine, Nox meandered over to watch. She lipped at Heath's sleeve or hair from time to time, wanting to make sure he didn't forget her turn.

Heath had looped a makeshift halter around Charger's head, with a double lead line knotted under the colt's chin to serve as a jaquima. He'd been riding Charger intermittently over the past few days, bareback, and not venturing far, mostly just to collect his arrows and test out his own mobility and limitations.

At first, he had mounted up cautiously, painfully, using a nearby rock outcropping to get on board. Once he had a little more confidence – though only, as yet, out of sight, beyond a stand of oaks – he would dismount and try to vault back up as he always had in the past. In this effort he was meeting with mixed success. To his advantage, the maneuver required almost nothing from his left arm or his right leg. The reach and pull, however - from his right arm down through his shoulder, right flank, and across his back - was pure hellfire.

He made it up about half the time. Most of _those_ times, he would end up hunched over Charger's neck, moaning through his teeth, his eyes watering with pain. Once - _one time_ \- he jumped and landed upright and balanced. He held close that single moment of remembered ease. It was a triumphant snippet of music, a fragment of a song he knew and loved with all his heart. It played in his mind, singing him forward as he fought to regain some measure of strength. He jumped, he fell; he jumped, and dragged himself up in agony; he dismounted, reached up, and tried again, and again, and again.

Charger tossed his head, energized by the change in the weather and eager to run. Heath patted his neck and thanked the horse, as he always did these days, for his patience and steady strength.

"I hear ya, Champ. We'll run today, I promise. Just about ready." He gathered his bow and arrows and strapped both onto his back.

Teleli rose from where he had been sitting with the Ghost Dancers and approached with a thoughtful mien. He stroked the bay's neck as Heath worked, remembering the bravery and toughness of both the horse and the man, as they fled before the high Sierra snows.

Heath gave him a quick smile as he leaned against Charger's shoulder and asked the horse to lift up a forefoot to be cleaned. Teleli could see Heath had sustained some serious new injuries since they parted in Death Valley a month ago. He had heard the stories, and he knew what Heath had faced to protect him. Watching the younger man move slowly around his horse, Teleli suspected his recovery was going to be long, painful, and likely very frustrating for a man as physical as he knew Me'weh to be.

The most crippling injuries often cannot be seen. Teleli knew this well, and he had been watching Me'weh, to see how close the demons were, how persistent, how forceful. They were close, **_very_** close, but right now all seemed quiet, as Me'weh worked through a familiar and pleasant task. It hadn't escaped Teleli's notice, however, that the small medicine box he had given Me'weh was always somewhere close at hand.

Heath straightened up with a grimace. He looked past Teleli to the three men sitting together at a distance, their eyes on him. They were always watching him. He had almost gotten used to it. He himself still had not heard a word from any of them, though he had seen them just now talking among themselves and with Teleli.

"They don't say much, those three."

Teleli's eyes crinkled in humor. "You mean they don't say much to you."

"Not a word. Is that some kind of rule? Something to do with this ceremony? They're not allowed to talk to me?"

Teleli was grinning now. He laughed aloud at Heath's look of confusion.

"They are allowed. They would be very happy to know you find their silence mysterious, but the fact is, they are shy, and they do not speak English well."

"You're kidding." Heath tipped his head and looked at the three with amazement, starting to smile himself. "Why do they watch me all the time?"

"You are Me'weh. They have grown up with stories of you."

Heath looked skeptical.

"They know not just Husu's tales, but mine as well, Me'weh. I was not a child when we found you in the river. I remember what you faced, and what you did for Husu." He turned back to Heath. "More than that, though: On the mountain, Rivka had them swear to her to find you, to keep you safe, and to bring you home. She would not leave you, or go willingly with me to Osa otherwise. That is an oath they will keep, and they do not yet feel their job is done. They went out after you on their own, the moment they heard you had been taken by the Governor's gunmen. That is why they were there to help bring you back from the river."

At the mention of Rivka, both men fell silent, thinking of the women – the families - to which they ached to return.

"Soon," Heath said quietly.

"Yes. Soon," Teleli agreed.

Shouts came to them, faintly, from the western boundary of the village. Both men rose to their feet and hurried to the verge of the hilltop, as did the Ghost Dancers, each scanning the horizon for the cause of the alarm. A few seconds later, Notaku, Peter, and Istu also emerged from the shelter to see what the shouting was about.

Teleli pointed. "There. Trouble." Smoke was rising from an old shed that had been refurbished and set up as a food storage building. Men, women, and children were already running to bring water to extinguish the fire.

"No, that's not the trouble," he heard Me'weh say. Surprised, Teleli turned to see Me'weh staring in the opposite direction, out at the hills and meadows that rose, undulating, to the east. He was searching intently, listening – for what?

"Me'weh. What is it -?"

"That's not the trouble," he said again.

A faint sound came from the east, high-pitched – a scream? Now Teleli was listening too, but Me'weh was already running for his horse.

Teleli ran after him. "Me'weh! Where are you going? How do you -"

"I'm a rancher," he heard Me'weh answer without turning back. "The fire isn't the trouble. It's a distraction."

Charger was already gathering himself to run. His rider reached him and vaulted onto his back without missing a step, the longbow already in his hand. The bay leaped forward into a gallop, heading for the eastern meadow, where several of the older Miwok children had gathered their small, brand-new herd of goats to graze.

Teleli heard the others come up behind him as Me'weh rode away.

"Hmph." Notaku watched him go. "Me'weh does not _look_ like a rancher." Teleli turned to face the group. "So. Teleli. What do we do to help? The fire? Or wherever Me'weh is going?"


	125. Chapter 124 - Paths to Dwell In

_And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry,_

 _And satisfy the afflicted soul;_

 _Then shall thy light rise in darkness,_

 _And thy gloom be as the noon-day;_

 _And the LORD will guide thee continually,_

 _And satisfy thy soul in drought,_

 _And make strong thy bones; And thou shalt be like a watered garden,_

 _And like a spring of water, whose waters fail not._

 _And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places,_

 _Thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations;_

 _And thou shalt be called The repairer of the breach,_

 _The restorer of paths to dwell in._

 _Isaiah 58:10-12_

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

Avram and David looked about in wide-eyed amazement as Moshe's wagon rolled through the colorful gates of the village with a load of dry goods and other necessaries. The joy, excitement, and eager anticipation of the people around them, from the youngest to the oldest, were palpable.

It was the twins' second visit to the village, having come the day before with Moshe to deliver supplies. Today they felt as if they were part of a celebratory parade, as they rolled in not only with Moshe and their parents, but with the Barkleys as well. On their parents' orders, Avram and David paid their polite respects to Marshal Smith and Mrs. Barkley-Smith, who were in a carriage with their saddle horses tethered behind. The boys were excited to see their Uncle Nick, though they still found him just a bit intimidating. They were over the moon to see Audra (to whom they staunchly refused to refer as "Aunt"). She was sitting beside an older Negro man driving a wagon full of a bewildering variety of foods and supplies.

"You must be Silas!" David exclaimed. "Uncle Heath always says what a good friend you are."

"He wrote to us all the time about you," Avram confirmed, grinning. "He says you're a magician, because you know how to win arguments without ever arguing at all. And he swears you make chicken soup better than Mama or even Hannah."

The smile that lit the man's face at this recognition would have been reward enough for these good-hearted boys, but the happiness his smile brought _Audra_ made them puff up with pride and pleasure. It went a ways to offset their jealousy of the young marshal who had been riding beside her and making her laugh. When the man was obliged to leave Audra's side to join the two lawmen who were just then arriving from Sonora, both boys quietly celebrated – but even their adoration of Audra could not keep them from being caught up in the atmosphere of fierce joy, survival and thanksgiving that was swelling up around them.

David and Avram were inquisitive young men - sometimes to a fault - and highly intelligent. Their life had not been a sheltered one. They knew what it was to flee before a threat of genocide. They had absorbed, in detail, the story of this village's near-extinction and survival. They had learned it from Moshe, from their parents and Rivka, and especially from Teleli himself. The exigent import of this prison-turned-homeland for the Miwok was not lost on them.

Nor did they misunderstand the rumbling of suspicion and hostile sentiment that had greeted them in town the previous morning, as they assisted Moshe with the loading of his delivery.

 ** _Sonora, California, Previous Day_**

The two boys chatted and laughed with Moshe in Yiddish as the mule-drawn wagon pulled up in front of the general supply store. They jumped down as the older man tied up at the rail; they were eager to see the store and load up Moshe's wagon, and just as eager to show off and outdo each other in feats of strength.

A cluster of men – local farmers and a few laborers - sat smoking outside the supply store, seemingly with little to do that morning except glower and mumble unintelligible comments to each other as Moshe and the two boys stepped up onto the sidewalk. Moshe glanced at them and sighed with a sour expression, gesturing to the boys to follow him inside.

Avram stopped on the sidewalk and turned to study the men. He suspected he knew what they were muttering about, but he was feeling curious and just a bit ornery, and invulnerable in his teenage strength.

David turned to back him up without a second thought. Several seconds of silence followed as the men and the boys regarded each other.

"Jews and Diggers," scoffed one man, and spat tobacco on the sidewalk.

"Hmph," agreed another. "Don't see the point of cartin' all that food 'n fixins down to that bunch. Just animals in a nest, they are. Should just burn 'em out. Guess these Jews don' know vermin when they see it."

"That Black Oak killer is back with 'em I heard. We ain't happy about that, no sir."

Avram and David shared a look.

"I hear a lot of the families hereabouts have been getting good medical care from the village," David said.

"Maybe your families, even," added Avram, with an innocent smile that belied the fight he was feeling. He knew there was hardly a homestead in the area that hadn't already benefited from his sister's hospital and their growing network of visiting nurses.

"Hmph." Another man spit on the sidewalk. There was no other response other than a few sullen grunts.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

"Uncle Jarrod!"

The boys enveloped Jarrod in a happy welcome, nearly knocking him to the sidewalk in the process.

Regaining his balance, Jarrod took a moment to study them, paused for thought, and then pointed. "You're David…and you're Avram."

"Right again, Uncle Jarrod."

"No one gets it right as much as you. Except for Uncle Heath – and Mama, of course."

"You know, boys, technically, I'm your brother-in-law."

They shrugged.

"You're too old to be a brother-in-law."

"Uncle Heath is always going to be Uncle Heath. So that makes you Uncle Jarrod."

"Suit yourself," Jarrod conceded with a smile, then grew more serious as he took in the dark looks of the men in front of the store. "So," he said, pleasantly, addressing himself to that group, "I'll ask again. Is there a problem here?"

"You Barkleys don't seem to think so," came a grumbled reply.

"Oh, jeez, Billy, lighten up, would you?"

Jed strolled up to the hitching rail, leaned on it casually, and shook his head as he looked over the gathered men. "Talkin' about burning folks out. Billy, you and your buddies here oughta know better. Don't you remember the stories your parents told you - how that Miwok village up the Merced helped 'em survive their first winter? Or _your_ folks, Jay - or any 'a you. No one makes it alone. Good people take care of each other.

"And how about that medical clinic they've cobbled together in Sutamasina? Who took care of your little one with the croup last week, Jay? Was it Billy here – or another of these boys? No, it wasn't, and you know it. These Miwok are homesteading, building up to something, tryin' to survive, same as any of your families did. So drop this torch and pitchfork nonsense. If you boys need something to do, the Daniels' spread is hiring men for winter pruning and clearing, and good wages."

The tension dissipated – most of it – and the men now seemed to be of a mind to move on to something else. Boots shuffled and crates scraped on the wooden sidewalk as they roused up to go. Some grumbling persisted, however.

"That rogue Indian is back. What you gonna do about _that_ , boy?"

Jarrod saw Jed's jaw tighten at that. _Boy_. Saw him take a slow breath before responding. Billy, and most of the other men, had already moved on down the sidewalk.

Jed looked the man in the eye. "I ain't gonna do _nothin'_ , Burke, and neither are any 'a you. Attorney General and the Governor say so. You wanna cross them? I'll wire Folsom and tell 'em to save you a room." He pushed away from the hitching rail and turned to approach Jarrod and the twins.

"Goddamed half-breed," the man spat as Jed turned his back and started to walk away. Burke lurched to his feet with his shotgun already in his hands – and then froze, as he found himself looking straight down the barrel of Jed's unwavering sidearm. He glanced at Jarrod, who had drawn his own gun by then, and at the fast-vanishing cohort of men who had been standing around him. The few remaining malcontents who had lingered were now retreating quickly in the face of Burke's failed gambit.

Scowling, Burke reluctantly – but carefully - laid his shotgun on the ground.

Jed nodded. "That's _Deputy Marshal_ Half-Breed, to you, Burke. Or just Jed Brown. We've known each other long enough." He watched Burke straighten up and stand uncertainly on the sidewalk. His tone softened. "Go on and sober up, Burke. Then talk to Daniels about some off-season work. You know you're a happier man with some sweat on your back and some money in your pocket. You can pick up your shotgun at the Marshal's office next week if you behave yourself."

Burke took another step toward Jed. Jarrod tensed, anticipating more trouble. Jed didn't move. Burke merely looked him in the eyes for a moment – then he sighed, patted the deputy on his shoulder, and moved slowly off down the sidewalk.

Jarrod was amazed at what he had just witnessed, though Nick had already shared his own impressions from their time on the trail. Jed had turned and drawn on Burke so fast Jarrod could not honestly say he even saw him do it.

Furthermore, he was impressed by the young man's self-possession in the face of a hostile, potentially violent confrontation. Jed didn't talk much, but clearly he was capable of it when necessary. Jarrod could see why Montana valued him as his "experienced guy".

The twins, also, were deeply impressed by this lawman who wasn't much older than they.

Jed holstered his sidearm as he watched Burke walk away. His relief was evident in his posture, but worry still lingered in his eyes. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, scowling thoughtfully. Finally he turned, bent to retrieve the shotgun, and came over to greet Jarrod with a smile.

"Raul is really looking forward to visiting the village and talking with Teleli, now that he's back. Waitin' on Doc Robinson to give him the go-ahead." He looked at the twins admiringly. "And _you_ handsome little fellas must be Rivka's baby brothers."

"Little…?"

" _Baby_ …?"

Jed winked at Jarrod, pleased with the boys' adolescent outrage. Jarrod felt that familiar, affectionate glance take hold of his heart and squeeze it like a physical force.

 _What am I going to do with this? Heath, what should I do?_

One thing, at least, came starkly clear to Jarrod, in that brief breathless silence: the visceral ache Jed elicited in him was misplaced. It was Heath he missed: that thoughtful, steady, good, brave brother who had sunk such deep roots in him in so little time. _That_ brother had been torn away from him. Jed was clearly a good man; he was becoming a good friend; he might even be a brother. That would come in due time. But that ache; that gut feeling; that wound of an uprooted connection: that was Heath. The past months had brought profound changes for everyone in the family. That was what needed tending.

 _Our paths forward are changing too,_ he thought, _for all of us. Different trials, different treasures._

Another thought came to him, as he regarded the young deputy: Jarrod was willing to bet Jed knew that too.

 ** _Village of Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

"Marshal John! Oša Keleli! Welcome to the village!"

The transformation of the village from a barbed-wire prison: this alone was stunning to those in the group who had seen it at its darkest point. It was not only the Levi boys who were amazed and even overwhelmed by the celebration and welcome they were experiencing. Husu climbed up into the carriage when John waved him over, and did his best to translate and explain some of what they were hearing and seeing around them.

" _Oša Keleli,_ that is you, Mrs. Barkley-Smith. You are The White Woman, who rode with Marshal John to kill Yayali's head in Sacramento." He grinned, and pointed to Jarrod, riding beside Nick. "Jarrod is _Ta'chi Aše'li,_ Big Brother Coyote. And Nick has been named _Hopa'mu_ , Grizzly Bear. Jed is _Hili'cha_ , the Mountain Lion."

"And what about Audra?"

"Much argument and debate among the children. All have a strong opinion, and all wish to choose her name. I am waiting to see what they come up with. And then there is Hannah. _Ama'chi Wati'ka,_ the Acorn Grandmother."

Hannah had come hurrying to the gate, waving and smiling and calling out to Silas. She climbed up into the driver's box and they shared a laughing embrace, already deep in happy conversation as Hannah pointed out the sights and introduced him around.

Audra, meanwhile, had jumped down from the wagon and greeted several children with hugs and kisses. "Mother, come with me to see Rivka and Ilsa and the baby! And I want to show you where the schoolrooms will be -" Victoria kissed her husband and climbed down, happy to stretch her legs, and even more eager to see Rivka. Hadassah and Solomon, she could see, had begun to walk up toward the barn as well. Haja had come to greet them. Husu confided his sister wanted very much to meet another woman healer like herself and Rivka; she also wanted to talk to Solomon, as she had never met a rabbi, and was curious to know what they are and what they do.

John gazed around at the scene. On a hilltop to the southeast, he could see a few shelters and the smoke of a cook fire – and the unmistakable statuesque form of Nox, her mane blowing in the wind, watching over the village like a guardian angel.

 _These folks could have used a guardian angel,_ he thought. _So could Heath. So could that young wife and husband who almost never made it out of the mountains._ John shook his head in bemusement at the chain of events that had led to this moment. _It's not angels that get us through. It's the love and bravery of regular people. This village, that horse, that couple and their baby – they are proof of what love and bravery can do. That young man up on that hill – that son of ours – he's proof._

John stretched and climbed down from the carriage, feeling stiff and sore from the prolonged sitting and thinking a ride on his horse might actually help. He walked around to the back of the carriage to greet Scout and check his tack.

It grew quiet, as the various talkative groups of people entered the gates and moved off to different parts of the village. Jarrod and Nick remained, looking thoughtfully out over the old farmstead. There was a sadness in their faces that John thought he understood. They stood in companionable silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Nick stirred.

"What that smell?" He was searching the boundary of the village with his eyes, uneasy. "I smell smoke, but it's different."

Jarrod was immediately alarmed, remembering the sidewalk confrontation of the day before. "Do you see anything? Anything burning?"

"There." John pointed, and as he did, he saw movement at the top of the hill.

"That's not the problem." Nick said.

"How can that not be the problem? Nick, I think one of their storage sheds is on fire," Jarrod said urgently. "We'd better get in there and help put it out. And if it was set deliberately, there may be more trouble. I ran into a bunch of would-be saboteurs yesterday."

"You can go after the fire, but that's not the problem," Nick insisted, his eyes now intently searching the terrain to the east. Coco began to prance and fuss, sensing his rider's imminent request for speed.

"Nick -"

"I'm a rancher, John. I'm telling you, the fire's not the problem. It's a distraction." A scream, high-pitched, very young, filtered to them through the trees. " _That_ is the problem."

John quickly tightened Scout's cinch and mounted up. Movement at the top of the hill once again caught his eye.

"Is that Heath?"

"Seems your brother agrees with you, Nick," John commented as they saw Heath sprint across to Charger and jump on with a longbow in his hand. He went tearing off at top speed, heading toward the sound of that scream.

"He's a rancher. He knows." Even with the urgency of the moment, Nick followed Heath with his eyes, aware of just how happy that sight made him. It always had.

The image drew Nick's mind back to the first days he and Heath had worked together, getting that cursed San Diego cattle drive together. Nick had been so stressed, under so much pressure. All those ranchers counting on him to bring their stock to market; measuring him, judging him; and now watching how he'd "handle" his father's backwoods bastard to boot. Oh, they laughed at him over their whiskeys about _that_ , Nick had been sure of it.

 _You got a job for a man to do, you make him do it. That's "handling it". How many times did I hear my father say that?_

So he had "handled" the kid, all right. He handled Heath like he was the laziest, stupidest, most worthless cuss ever to ride drag and chase strays through the rough, which is what Nick made him do, day after 18-hour day. He'd holler at Heath like he'd been asleep in the saddle. He'd send Heath after every stray, or send him to the back of the herd if there weren't any strays to chase, hoping the kid would somehow just disappear and stop making Nick feel so goddamned _angry_ all the time.

Heath didn't complain.

The hands loved it. Nick did his best, back then, not to think about _that_.

 _Don't think – just handle him._ Nick would send him off again, and watch him ride like the wind.

Nick was watching him now, even as he wheeled Coco to head in the same direction; saw Heath jump on Charger and take off like a four-legged gust of wind. So familiar, and so different. Heath's hair was getting long, he noticed; he had no saddle, and he had knotted the reins of the jaquima to free up his hands for the bow. Nick found himself laughing as he spurred Coco to a gallop, John and Jarrod following, feeling strangely joyful despite the emergency. "It's funny," he called over his shoulder. "Heath knows – but he sure doesn't _look_ like a rancher."

Joyful – and _fierce_ , because now he was remembering that sunrise, a month ago, right here in this camp. He had to watch Heath climb a barn and dodge sniper fire to get that little girl off the roof, and there wasn't a damn thing Nick could do about it. He had been quarantined away from his brother when his brother needed him the most. Heath was riding into trouble again, but Nick wasn't quarantined now. He was heading out to back up his brother, and God help anyone who tried to get in his way.


	126. Chapter 125 - Zoetrope

_Clother of the lily, Feeder of the sparrow,_  
 _Father of the fatherless, dear Lord,_  
 _Tho' Thou set me as a mark against Thine arrow,_  
 _As a prey unto Thy sword,_  
 _As a plough'd-up field beneath Thy harrow,_  
 _As a captive in Thy cord,_  
 _Let that cord be love; and some day make my narrow_  
 _Hallow'd bed according to Thy Word. Amen._

 _Christina Georgina Rossetti, "A Prayer"_

* * *

 ** _West of Sonora, January 10, 1875_**

That scream came again – high, terrified, a young girl's voice – and now, as he got closer, Heath could hear the frightened bleating of goats, a chorus in sympathy with the girl's cry for help.

The rustlers weren't riding fast. He was glad for that, at least. They had stolen the goats from an inexperienced group of boys and girls; the thieves knew, moreover, that the surviving Miwok of the present day did not have a reputation for violence, whether aggressive or defensive. They assumed the Indians would put their energy into putting out the fire, and give their goats up for lost.

Thus feeling they could act with impunity, the rustlers, three in number, had decided to steal two of the Miwok girls as well. One girl was making some troublesome noise, but as the men saw no evidence of pursuit or retaliation, they continued on at a jog, herding the unhappy goats ahead of them.

Heath spotted them quickly from the high ground of their campsite. Charger was more than willing to run. Keeping low on his neck, Heath guided the horse through the undulating terrain on a parallel path that kept them out of the thieves' line of sight. He was out ahead of them in minutes, and then angling in to cut them off, his first arrow nocked and ready.

No thought sounded in his mind other than the methodical, rapid assessment of threat and the steps necessary to get the two girls to safety.

 _Three mediocre horses. Three men with side arms, holstered. One man with a rifle still in the scabbard. Two men each holding a girl. One girl struggling_.

Heath recognized her. That was Yukulu, an energetic, kind girl who had befriended Malila in the way of an older sister. The other girl he did not know; she was younger, smaller, and appeared frozen with fear.

Heath was aware now of the fury boiling up inside of him, but right then it was like a storm raging outside a closed window. Memory, too, was there in that storm, whistling noiselessly around him. Images flickered like lightning; other places, other times, other wars. He was 10, running up a Sierra ridge and jumping out into nothing. He was a 14-year-old sniper, miles into Confederate territory with his partner Jimmy, the two of them running for the line on a stolen horse with a secesh patrol hot on their heels. He was 15, stumbling through a New Mexico arroyo in the dark, two three-year-old boys in his arms, shepherding the Levi family into hiding ahead of an occupying Reb force. He was 25, racing into the night across the dry hills of Nevada to protect his brothers from Risley's gunmen.

There were worse things than death. There were worse things than torture. This he had learned well and early. He would do it all again without hesitation, he knew this. He would ride that same trail again with all of its terrible consequences; he would spend eternity in that hellish Nevada prison quarry, if that was what it took. The memories flashed around him as his horse leaped forward; he glanced at them, briefly, but he was in a silent place, his eyes on his target.

 _Three men, two girls._

Heath burst out of the woods into the rustlers' path, one arrow already in flight and a second at the ready. The man holding Yukulu jerked backward and was nearly unseated from his horse as the obsidian-tipped shaft buried itself just above his collarbone, rendering his gun arm useless. He lost his grip on Yukulu. She fell hard but scrambled quickly to her feet, then stood gaping wide-eyed at Me'weh, who had come out of nowhere and now had his arrow aimed at the man holding the younger girl.

 _"_ Yukulu _\- 'iw'i, 'iw'in!"_ Heath shouted at her. That command startled her out of her motionlessness. He breathed a prayer of thanks as she dodged the wounded rustler's grasping hand and ran back toward the village, several anxious goats following after her.

 _Two men, one girl._ Heath had pegged the man holding the smaller girl as the leader. He narrowed his eyes down the shaft of his arrow as the thief held the girl in front of him as a shield. Silence filled the clearing as the goats fled homeward; the only sound was the moaning of the wounded man. He groped once or twice for his sidearm with the opposite hand, then appeared to faint and fell to the ground himself.

Dispassionate, the leader watched him fall, then looked back at Heath. "You're the crazy Barkley. Heard about you. And gone native, looks like." He spat tobacco onto the ground and glanced at his uninjured companion. "You ain't got a chance here, dog. What's your play?"

"Your friend there makes even a twitch toward a weapon, you'll be the first to drop." Heath spoke so softly it was almost a whisper. "You understand me? He touches that gun, I go to you first. Then him."

"You want to die, Barkley?'

Heath winced slightly at that question - _Do you want to die, 597? -_ but the little girl was staring desperately at him now, and the echo faded. Silence.

 _Two men, one girl. Breathe in, breathe out._

"Talkin' like you think you can take us both, dog." The rustler smirked, but his eyes were uncertain.

Heath nodded, eyes on the leader. "Yep."

The man spat again, and seemed to be thinking.

"Let the girl go," came the whispered voice again. "Ride off with your hands on your head. Stay alive."

"You're crazy."

Heath nodded again, slowly.

The rustler was thinking, still staring at Heath, but with a smile starting on his face that Heath did not like at all; a faint smile, like he had just figured something out. He was opening his mouth to speak when they were interrupted.

" _LET. THE GIRL. GO_." A voice boomed down from somewhere above and behind him.

Heath had an excess of experience in keeping his focus on his target while loud and/or life-threatening mayhem erupted all about. This moment was no exception. There was movement now around him; people emerging from the trees; horses thundering up on all sides of him. The tip of his arrow did not budge. _Breathe in, breathe out._ He did not relax, he did not feel relief, not yet. Not yet.

More riders arrived from the direction of the village gate.

 _Breathe in, breathe out._

"Helluva bluff, dog," the thief growled. "You _are_ crazy. Shoulda called you on it."

Heath saw the leader release the girl; he saw her run toward the forest where several people were waiting to care for her. Heath did not follow her with his eyes. The arrow did not move.

 _Two men, two guns._

The second man, the uninjured rustler, put his hands in the air and dismounted, while someone quickly collected his weapons.

 _One man, one gun._

"Heath."

 _Breathe in –_

"Heath -"

 _Breathe out –_

Figures came out of the forest and closed in behind the leader, who had lifted his gun in a gesture of surrender. Suddenly he lashed out with the butt of the pistol, catching Jim Roberts in the side of the head as the marshal stepped forward to disarm the man. Jim went down, out cold. The rustler raised the weapon and tried to spur his horse forward, intent on escape.

He did not get far, and he never fired a single bullet. He fell yelling to the ground, an arrow buried in the bones of his gun arm, as his horse shied anxiously away. He glared up at Heath, who already had a third arrow aimed at his face, then he fell back with a mirthless, resigned laugh.

"Guess you wasn't bluffin' after all," he groaned, holding his bleeding arm. "Goddamned crazy dog -"

His voice faded quickly as men moved in to secure the criminals and tend to Roberts.

Silence.

"Heath."

 _Breathe in –_

"Heath, stand down, son."

 _That was John. John waiting to lock me up and take me to prison._

 _No. That was then. You are here. Now._

 _Breathe out._

Heath exhaled and dropped his arms, letting the bow go loose in his hands. Feeling and sound and considerable pain returned, enough to put a catch in his breath and make his eyes water. He shifted his weight with a grimace. Blended voices of people and forest gradually reemerged; the palpable quiet receded, and with it the storm of memory that had spun silently around him like a cocoon. Heath blinked and looked around.

Someone was beside him. There was a warm hand on his back, and Heath looked into steady, worried gray eyes.

"John -?"

Heath felt off-balance, as if he had become disconnected from time and might slip in any direction if he didn't move carefully. He looked at John and it seemed as though he had not seen him for years; it seemed, in fact, like a lifetime had passed since they last met, though he knew he had only even known the man for 6 months.

 _He called me his son. So long ago – a lifetime ago -_

"John -" he started, hoarsely, then cleared his throat and tried again. He was doing his best to talk like a normal person, though he still felt like he was hovering slightly outside of –

 _Outside of what?_

 _Outside of wherever everyone else is._

John frowned slightly.

 _He can tell,_ Heath thought. _He can tell I'm –that I'm off. That I'm_ ** _outside_** _._ He wondered if everyone could tell. That idea made him feel intensely anxious, as he pictured the gathering of the families.

 _You're the crazy Barkley._

Annoyed with himself, Heath decided to just ignore that whole train of thought and plow ahead. _Talk like a normal person_. "John, how are you doing? Jarrod told me what happened, he says you've been healing up –"

Heath's relief was enormous to see the marshal looking more or less healthy, but as the worry eased, everything else came crushing in, and he felt himself sinking under it all. _Might as well get it said._ He kept talking, holding that gray gaze, not giving John a chance to respond.

"I'm – John, I'm so sorry – you trusted me, you relied on me and I didn't hold up. You had a war on your hands, and I - I fell apart and left you to manage the mess. I damn near got you killed. I am so sorry. I want you to know -"

" _Heath_. Goddammit, it's good to see you," John interrupted. He threw a long arm around his shoulders and pulled Heath, surprised, into a hug, cutting off his apology. John spoke quietly to him, not a shred of doubt in his voice. "I am so grateful you're here. You've been to Hell and back again, son, and I'm just grateful you fought your way through and back to us. There's nothing to apologize for. You understand me, Heath? _Nothing_. I just wish I had gotten to that monster sooner."

Heath listened to the older man's words; he felt the comforting weight of his arm around him. The world began to settle back into place. He took a breath and tried to relax. Pulling back, he looked seriously at John – then found himself grinning, because the loud, unexpected voice that came to his mind just then was Nick's.

 _Will you two please stop apologizing to each other?_

"What's so funny?" John was studying his eyes, sensing the shifting tides and wind and trying to get a bead on the weather.

"Just wondering. Which monster? Seems to me there were several."

"You're damn right about that, son. Too many. But now it's time to celebrate. I hear congratulations are in order, young man. Married – and a little one on the way?"

"That's right." Heath's smile widened, marveling and grateful for the bright, expanding joy in his heart at the thought.

 _I thought I was gone. I thought I was done. Over. Finished. Broken into useless pieces. And yet here I am._

"I know it's not how you planned it, Heath, but I am happy for you and Rivka. I am – _we_ are - so proud of both of you. Victoria and I can't very well scold you for not waiting for all of us to be there -" Heath laughed at that. "- however I can't say the same for Audra. I expect she'll try to complain. But we are all here to celebrate now. Though I understand we have to wait until Haja says it's time."

"Oh, yes," Heath confirmed. "Yes, she's the boss."

They heard a groan and some cursing.

"Jim - is Jim OK?" Heath saw the deputy marshal on the ground, being tended to by Jed and – and - " _Frank_? What are you doing here?"

"You ain't havin' a big wedding party without _me,_ kid," Frank tossed over his shoulder with a grin. "And I think this young buck here is gonna be alright."

More horses came alongside.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Heath? Taking on three armed rustlers by _yourself_? With a goddamned bow and _arrow_? And left-handed, by the way, boy, don't think I didn't notice that."

That was Nick, a thundercloud on Coco moving in on his left, Jarrod beside him. Heath was glad to still be up on Charger, at least – it made Nick not quite so overwhelming. He didn't even try to answer his brother's rhetorical question - he knew how _that_ would go. That knowledge made him smile, so he caught Jarrod's eye with a wink, knowing he would understand. Jarrod returned the smile, and came around to embrace him. Heath was puzzled by the emotion he saw in him.

"Hey, Jarrod, what is it? I just saw you yesterday." He looked him in the eye. "Hope you weren't worried about this bunch. If they were any good at shootin' they wouldn't be out stealing goats and attacking little girls."

"No, no, it's not that – though _that_ , Heath, now that you mention it -"

"Don't you start -" Heath broke off, surprised now as he continued to look around the clearing. The little girl who had been kidnapped was being comforted by Notaku; next to him stood Teleli, the three Ghost Dancers, Istu, and Peter, astride Nox, who towered over all of them. She whickered at Heath, scolding him and Charger for running off without her. "Sorry, girl," he promised. "Next time." He looked questioning at Teleli.

"We followed you," he explained. "You knew where the trouble was. But why -" Unaccountably, Teleli started to laugh, and was unable to finish his question. Notaku and the rest, grave as they were, also broke down in laughter. Peter was as mystified as Heath, and they shared a look of utter confusion.

"What? Why _what_?"

"Why did you tell Yukulu to - to go -" Teleli burst out laughing again. He gasped for breath and made another try. "Why did you tell her to go eat lunch…?"

Now Peter was laughing too, and so was most everyone else. Heath did his best not to be embarrassed.

"It was all I could think of!" he protested. "I heard Husu say it a few times, and it always gets the kids running back to the village, so -"

This explanation only seemed to generate more hilarity. Smiling, Heath resigned himself to the teasing he knew would follow him, along with yet another Me'weh story.

"Oh, I can't wait to tell Husu -" he heard Teleli saying to Peter.

"Hey, old man," said Jed, walking up alongside and dusting off the knees of his pants. "You beat us to it. Pretty quick work, gimpy as you are."

John raised his eyebrows at the gibe.

Heath just shook his head with a tolerant sigh. "Beat you to it -?"

Jed nodded. "Yeah. The fellas that Jarrod and those giant twin boys got into it with yesterday -"

"Wait – what? The twins? Got into -"

"Tell you about that after. Point is, I directed those grumbling layabouts to some decent-paying work. They then decided to act like _citizens_ instead of a lynch mob, and came to let me know these three bums were planning to raid the village. So Frank and I hightailed it down here and picked up Roberts, who I 'spect is not going to be completely happy with the way this day turned out." He looked with real sympathy at Jim, who was sitting up, carefully, and looking rather ill. "In the meantime, you and Nick picked up the same scent. He got here with Jarrod and John just ahead of us."

Jed rubbed his neck and looked at the scene, as he considered his own words. He glanced apologetically up at John. "Y'know, Marshal, come to think of it, not sure what the real lawmen are doin' here besides clean up. Barkley here had 'em pegged all on his own." He touched the brim of his hat to Heath with a grin. "Helluva stare-down, old man. Jeez."

Heath gave a rueful laugh and shook his head. "I was on the hunt, that's for sure. But my arm woulda given out. That rustler was just figuring that out when Nick came hollerin' down the hill, and not a moment too soon."

"That reminds me!" said John, looking at Nick and Jarrod.

"And not a moment too soon." Jarrod concurred.

Nick gave Heath a hearty slap on the back. "Happy birthday, Heath! We're all coming up for the ceremony tonight. Haja says. This is gonna be like no birthday party _I've_ ever been to."

Heath grinned. "So much for it being quiet and peaceful up there."


	127. Chapter 126 - Relativity

_Every man has to learn the points of compass again as often as he awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction. Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations._

 _Henry David Thoreau, "Walden"_

 ** _Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

A brisk wind was gusting around the campsite, causing the flames in the main fire pit to crackle and flare erratically. Heath slid from Charger's back with a groan, already missing the warmth of the horse's body as the sweat of his own exertion chilled his skin. He staggered slightly as his boots hit the ground. The old bullet wound in his right flank still had teeth if he moved the wrong way, and when it grabbed him hard – as it was doing just then - Heath could hardly bear weight on that leg until it passed.

He kept a hand on Charger for balance, surveying the ceremonial campsite as he waited out the pain in his back. The fire, he knew, was heating the stones for the sweat lodge ceremony. The completed deerskin-covered dome had been blessed by Haja. Heath had built the willow framework with Notaku, while Peter and Istu had constructed the cover. The Ghost Dancers had gathered the small granite boulders, and now were tending the fire in which the 16 stones were absorbing heat. Heath glanced at the sweat lodge. The buckskin color made it look nearly like a natural outgrowth of the hilltop. It hunkered low to the ground; any adult would have to crawl to pass through the flap-covered entry.

Charger had obliged him with a steady shoulder to lean on until he got himself sorted out. Carefully, Heath straightened up and tested his weight on his right leg. Satisfied, he dismissed Charger with praise and a grateful pat on the neck, and the horse walked off to graze by the creek. Heath watched him go, disquiet furrowing his brow.

There at the crest of the hill, the winter sky was a lens of clear pure light. It curved down to the distant horizon in all directions, holding them gently at its center like a drop of water in a bowl. Heath turned in place, taking in the beauty.

He had had moments over the past days in which he felt balanced, poised upon the cusp of some deep change. Today, he realized, he was increasingly anxious and unsteady, a blind man stumbling forward upon a razor's edge. His thoughts were restless, circling around the ceremony to come.

Charger found a likely spot and dropped his head to graze, tugging contentedly at the golden-brown winter grasses. Heath decided to keep moving, in hopes of calming himself and clearing his mind. His limping gait carried him along the open western verge of the hilltop that gave a broad view of the valley and the serpentine shape of Table Mountain, but his path had become an arc, an orbit, turning always inward. The small, earth-colored buckskin shelter tugged at him. It unsettled him, and made his heart race. It seemed always now at the edges of his vision: a gravid, silent shape, expectant, self-contained.

His thoughts danced away again, avoiding.

 _It's my birthday,_ he suddenly remembered. _I'm 26._ And then:

 _The day I turned 16, Bentell locked me in a pitch-black root cellar and set his dogs on me._

 _Dammit._ Frustrated, Heath stopped where he was, bracing himself. His body had its own vivid, tactile powers of memory. He closed his eyes and rode it out: the claws digging into his flayed back, growling teeth sinking into the base of his neck, his face pressed into the dust. Blackness. Hopelessness. The remembered knowledge that there was no respite, no mercy, no love waiting beyond that locked door, even if they did get him out before the dogs killed him.

Fighting panic, Heath groped for a calming thought, and heard Teleli's voice, which helped some.

 _Breathe. No need to get angry, Me'weh. Just breathe._

Then he thought of Nick.

 _Happy Birthday, Heath!_

Nick, clapping him on the back hard enough to hurt. Heath had no complaints about _that_ pain. The weight of this brother's arm lay over his shoulders like a blessing; Nick's love was here-and-now, as welcome and tangible as the force of gravity.

The dogs retreated out of view. The blackness of the memory began to recede as well, though not entirely. It hovered, a shape-shifting presence Heath could neither see clearly nor ignore. It made his head ache. Rubbing the back of his head, he turned to start moving again and walked right into the solid black form of Nox.

He stumbled back a step, startled into laughter. "You comin' to take a walk with me, girl?"

Nox nudged the front of his shirt in answer, and he pulled out a few pine nuts. As she lipped them from his palm, he pulled some tangles from her long forelock, and traced his fingertips over the white blaze on her face. It began as a small white star between her eyes, a mark which, by itself, would not disqualify her to be listed for breeding as a purebred Friesian. The star continued, though, as a thin, tapering white line down the center of her nose, as bright and delicate as a beam of starlight. For this defect, the horse was deemed without value by her breeders, but to Ilsa, that same defect was a priceless treasure, for it brought the tall, intelligent filly into her care and into her heart. _Nachtmuzik_. Heath smiled as he remembered Moshe playing from memory a few measures of the piece of music for which the mare was named.

"So grateful we found your family, Nox. So grateful," he murmured.

Out of habit, Heath moved around the horse, brushing debris from her coat as best he could without a curry comb or brush, and slowly untangling her mane and tail. He talked to her as he worked, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about important things. She listened. Her ears moved and followed his voice; she stood calmly, and nudged him for more pine nuts when he was in range of her soft nose.

Nox was a blackness Heath could touch and begin to understand. He told her that. He thanked her for it. He remembered that there was a time, not so long ago, when he could not touch this horse; a time when he did not know her story or understand her blackness; a time when she almost killed him thinking he was a threat to Audra.

There was a time _he_ had frightened _her_ , when his own darkness had come boiling up and over out of his memory. She did not hurt him, then, but she backed him up good against the barn and put a crack in the siding, just to make her point.

She had been starved, lame, and unmanageable when Audra first found her. The mare had been deemed hopeless and incurable. Heath ran his hand over the scars that crisscrossed her body. Some were from the lash, some from hours of struggle in an ill-fitting harness, some were scars of other battles. He could see a few new ones on her legs and haunches that he suspected were the result of her charge into the flooded Stanislaus that unquestionably saved his life. Heath stroked her neck and thanked her for that, too.

She calmed him. More than that, she helped him hold onto a sometimes-fragile hope for his own future.

These things were true. It was also true that he was stalling. He was lingering around the horse, stubbornly turning his eyes away from that hunkering, unassuming deerskin structure.

* * *

Teleli watched Me'weh from across the campsite. To his eye, Me'weh's restlessness and fear were as plain as shouting, and especially so after what Teleli had learned a few minutes ago. True, without the ritual meditation, Teleli could not sense the specifics of what haunted Me'weh this day, but the core of it was clear. Me'weh was circling the dome he had built, unwilling to approach, and just as unwilling to move away. His eyes were drawn to it over and over, like a leaf pulled into the eddy of a river. Teleli knew the feeling well. He walked over.

"Me'weh."

"Hey." Me'weh glanced up in greeting, then returned his attention to the untangling of a large mat of twigs, burrs, and horsehair that was embedded in Nox' mane.

"Me'weh, have you ever actually _ridden_ this horse?"

He chuckled. "No, I haven't. Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"I was on her back once. With Audra. I wasn't -" He looked slightly embarrassed. "- I wasn't exactly conscious at the time. So I have to take Audra's word for it. Don't reckon that counts as riding."

Teleli made a sound of agreement. "And now? Why do you not ride her now?"

"Funny question." He looked up at the big mare with a puzzled, affectionate grin. "I don't rightly know. She's – she's different."

"So Oša always told me," Teleli said, studying Nox as well. "Though clearly she and Peter expect Nox to be a working part of the family. Audra and Rivka both rode her into danger. Husu and the children have named her for obsidian; she is _Sitikiniwa_ , the flying battle horse.

"But you, Me'weh – you want to spoil her, I think. Perhaps she would become fat and lazy if it were up to you."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. "I honestly don't know. Maybe you're right. Or maybe it's that she's saved me so many times I just can't quite treat her like a regular saddle horse." He shook his head with a thoughtful smile. "Gonna have to think about that."

They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes. Teleli looked pensively out at the view, while Me'weh continued to work.

"What worries you about the sweat lodge?" Teleli finally asked.

Me'weh kept working, but he winced. "That obvious?"

"Yes. To me, anyway."

Me'weh's eyes returned to the sweat lodge, but this time Teleli could see a stubborn set to his jaw, and he did not look away immediately. After a moment he turned back to Nox.

"What's it like?" he asked, quietly, and Teleli thought he sounded suddenly very - young. This was not the weathered, deadly-certain voice of the warrior Me'weh, who rescued two girls from thieves. Teleli had met that warrior before, and he was old, ancient even. _This_ man, the one asking, was a young man who had seen himself shattered and lost, and who knew for a truth it could happen again. He was worried – and rightly so. He was uncertain. Humble.

 _Humble, as anyone should be who has broken as we have done, Me'weh. All should be humble – all should be grateful – but some of us have learned that lesson too well, by drowning in it._

 _What is it like? That is a question with many, many answers._

Teleli's instinct told him that what Me'weh needed first was concrete information, something he could lay his hands on. This tangible understanding would deepen quickly for Me'weh into something else, just as it did with this horse, but it was the best place to start.

"I will tell you how it will go – what to expect, physically; how long, how hot; how it begins and ends. But first I want you to know something." Me'weh looked up from the matted mane, curious. "I spoke with your brother a little while ago, before I came back up the hill."

"With Jarrod?"

"No – with Nick. And - I think it is more correct to say he came to talk to me."

Surprised, Me'weh opened his mouth as if to respond, paused, and then turned back to the horse without speaking. His hands continued working, but he had the stoic look of someone readying himself for a difficult conversation.

"Before I returned from where you caught the kidnappers, I approached your father John and your brother Jarrod. I wanted very much to thank them. They fought hard to bring me home to my family. It is a debt, I told them, I could never repay, and whenever I put my arms around my woman and my two children, my thanks will be also to them. My thanks don't stop there, of course – I am grateful to you and Rivka, and the marshals, to your adopted mother the White Woman, to Hannah the Acorn Grandmother -" They both smiled at that. Teleli went on, "My family home, my village, is open to you and yours, Me'weh, always. You know this."

Me'weh nodded. "And ours to you and yours, Teleli."

Teleli paused for a breath to acknowledge this exchange of kinship, and marveling, as he often did, over the strange sky color of Me'weh's eyes. He continued. "Marshal John and Jarrod accepted my thanks and my kinship. They answered that I helped you survive and helped you come home to them, and that was all the thanks they would ever need." He smiled as Me'weh seemed to have some trouble absorbing that equation.

"As I turned to walk away, Nick came riding back, dismounted, and asked if he could walk with me a ways. There was something he wanted to talk to me about before the ceremony."


	128. Chapter 127 - Gratitude

_Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others._

 _Cicero_

* * *

 _Of_ _every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to heaven._

 _Charles_ _Dickens_ , _"The Old Curiosity Shop"_

* * *

 ** _Outside Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

The groups of men that had converged on the would-be kidnappers now parted ways with a few quick handshakes, pats on the back, and calls of "see ya at the party". Jed and Sean Thomas had all three rustlers trussed up and mounted. Frank was riding stirrup-to-stirrup beside Jim Roberts with a protective grip on the back of the deputy marshal's coat, steadying him for the ride back to Sonora. Jim was hunched over his saddle horn, still looking queasy, with one hand on the reins and the other covering his eyes.

"Quit coddlin' me, Frank," he complained. "I ain't gonna fall over. And I ain't missin' the party tonight, either. After all, I'm the – I'm the -" Jim raised his head to argue his point, then had to grab onto his saddle for balance. "Ugh…stop all this spinnin', for pity's sake," he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut again. "Makin' me sick…"

"After all, you're what, Jim? You were saying?" Frank said indulgently.

"I'm –" He swallowed, fighting nausea.

"He's the hero, Frank," Jed offered, grinning. "The King of the Dominoes, takin' down the bad guys from Jamestown all the way up the line to Sacramento."

"That's right," Sean promptly agreed. "Roman told me Heath and Teleli would still be on the run if Mr. Roberts here hadn't come up with just the right domino for Marshal Smith and Mr. Barkley to slam down on the Governor's smug, avaricious, homicidal head."

" _Avaricious_?" Frank grinned. "You've got quite the vocabulary, Deputy."

Jim groaned again. "You tell 'im, boys."

Frank laughed aloud. "Well, you are that, Jim. King of the Dominoes. Let's ride on up to Montana's place, that way Doc Robinson only has to make one house call to check on the both of you. Jed, you give Sean a hand gettin' these three perpetrators settled in the lockup. I'm worried he's gonna trip and fall over one 'a those big words he's throwin' around."

Jed winked at Sean. "Don't let 'im fool ya. It's a well-kept secret that Marshal Sawyer is a college-educated man. Don't spread it around, though. It'd ruin his reputation."

* * *

Jarrod shared a smile with Nick and John as Frank's laugh reached them over the rolling landscape. The three men were riding side by side, on their way back to the village gate. Looking over his shoulder, Jarrod saw Teleli kneel to check on the girl who had been freed from the rustler. She smiled and nodded, then turned to Notaku, who easily lifted her up and proceeded to give her a shoulder ride back home. Her laughter drew smiles even from the three ghosts. Teleli watched her go, then turned to begin the climb back up to the hilltop.

It had been a remarkable moment for Jarrod, meeting Teleli again after 15 years. That grave, vigilant Miwok boy had become a vivid presence in Jarrod's memory during this winter-long ordeal. Once the dust of the present rescue had settled and the rustlers were contained, Teleli had come directly to Jarrod. The two men shook hands and merely looked at one another for a long, history-laden moment.

"Friend," Jarrod said, finally. A powerful feeling filled his chest and stole his voice; he realized, with gratitude, that the feeling was joy. Not dread, or despair, or crushing remorse – just joy, thankful joy.

"Friend," Teleli had nodded. " _A'yi_. Friend. Thank you."

Nick now was watching Teleli too, Jarrod realized; as they took their leave, his brother had gone uncharacteristically silent, his eyes hooded and preoccupied. Another minute passed, and Nick sighed loudly. He took off his Stetson to run a hand through his hair, settled the hat again over his eyes, and wheeled Coco decisively around to head back the way they had just come. Jarrod and John both looked at him in surprise.

"You two go on ahead," he said gruffly. "I'll catch up with you. I just gotta talk to Te - Tel –" He struggled with the unfamiliar name. "- to Teleli. Something I want to talk to him about." He waved away their questioning looks. "Go on. It's fine. I'll catch up." He kicked Coco into a canter and rode off.

Heath and Peter, both mounted, were already out of sight when Nick returned. Teleli trailed behind the group climbing the hill, walking slowly as he studied the ground for useful plants. At the sound of the approaching horse, Nick noticed, the three Ghost Dancers backtracked to stay within sight of their companion. Once Teleli recognized Nick, he signaled his reassurance to the three Miwok men; they resumed the climb and soon disappeared up the wooded grade. Teleli stood waiting with an air of expectant stillness that reminded Nick very much of Heath.

 _That is, it reminds me of how Heath is **supposed** to be. When he's not out of his mind._

Nick allowed himself to have that somewhat peevish thought. He felt way out of his depth with all the ceremonial activity and symbolism, but he thought he knew one thing: it did nobody any good for Nick to pretend that he wasn't missing his brother and his partner every day, missing him badly, for months now.

It had been months of losing Heath and fighting to get him back; months of feeling helpless; months of discovering more to cherish and honor in his half-brother than Nick ever thought possible, all the while seeing that same brother's faith in himself crack and erode. It had been months of watching Heath struggle to regain some measure of health and sanity.

Months of remembering that point of crisis: the moment Heath made a desperate decision, and laid his life down for Nick.

 _That moment._

Nick could no longer turn his mind away from it. It pulled him in, always stronger, a whirlpool circling an unknown darkness. Jarrod had shared what he had learned about the sweat lodge ceremony, in order to prepare the family. The image of blackness and heat had filled Nick with dread. That dread had steadily grown to a discordant clanging, so utterly out of tune with the joyful mood of the village that Nick finally was forced to stop and look at it straight on.

Crisis point. He thought he understood a bit more, now, the choice his brother had made, and he feared the knowledge was going to break his heart.

 _How did Jarrod put it? Something about when Heath first came to us, joking about all the jobs he'd had, he had already survived Hell a few times over._

 _You didn't just lay your life down for me, Heath. You knew there are worse things than death, waiting for you right around the corner, but you still made that choice. You stepped between me and that madman Risley._

"Teleli," Nick greeted him.

"Nick."

"Listen, I wanted to -" He stopped, feeling awkward and emotional.

Teleli was looking up at him patiently but with a hint of worry in his eyes. Nick huffed with annoyance at his own fuzziness. He was not entirely sure what he wanted to say – or hear. He dismounted quickly, pulling off his gloves to twist them in his hands as he faced Teleli.

"Do you mind if I walk with you a ways?" he asked after a moment, making an effort to soften his voice. He knew he could come across as being angry when he was tense or worried. He did not want to put Teleli on the defensive.

Teleli gave him a somber smile and tipped his head toward the trail; the two men fell into step together while Nick tried to gather the right words. He turned to face Teleli and stopped, suddenly overcome by another memory of Nevada.

 _"Nick - how long was it that you were gone?" Heath sounded uncertain, even a little lost._

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"From when you got out of the camp until Leviathan. How many days?"_

 _"You don't know?"_

 _Heath shook his head._

 _Nick realized that this admission - from this brother with his uncanny sense of time - was scaring him far more than patching up Heath's knife and bullet and buckshot wounds ever did._

 _"The doctor asked me, that first night after you found me - asked me how long it had been since we'd been arrested, how long since I ate, how many times did - did Risley -" Heath stopped, frowning, then said, "I didn't know. I guessed. I thought maybe 2 or 3 weeks, but I - I couldn't keep track after a while -"_

 _"Heath -"_

 _"He got under your skin, didn't he. That night at Leviathan. You never told me, but I could tell. Risley got inside your head."_

 _"Oh yes. He got under my skin all right." Nick shuddered slightly._

 _"Didn't take him long."_

 _"No." Nick was starting to understand where Heath's thoughts were going. "It was twenty days, Heath."_

 _Heath took in that piece of information. His eyes on the ground, he kicked a stone ahead of him as they walked. "I'm scared of him," he admitted. "All that time, it was just him, no other voices, no food, no light, no sleep, just him and his whip and his words crawling into my head like rats. I'm not there now, I know I'm not, but the idea of being trapped with him again - it scares me, and he knows it. He knows it."_

Nick let the memories come. They would give him the words to express the dread he was feeling.

 _Heath lying in the dirt, bleeding, each shallow breath ending in a barely audible sound of pain. Risley circling him, trailing the bullwhip beside him in the dust._

 _"Put 597 in the box. Let the prisoners watch him cook for a while. Mr. Barkley - Nick - please come to my office so we can make arrangements for your departure before your brother the attorney returns."_

 _Heath, barely conscious but more terrified than Nick had ever seen any man, fighting to get loose from the guards who were dragging him toward the box._

 _"No. No. **No** -" His desperate struggle cut short by the guards' boots and truncheons. Heath calling out for him, for Nick – crying out for any kind of mercy when the pain and suffocation became overwhelming._

"Teleli." Nick could feel his tense, knotted-up muscles trembling. "Do you know what a sweat box is? Have you ever seen one, or heard how they are used in prisons?"

"No," Teleli answered, looking puzzled. "Sweat box?"

"It is a way to torture a person." Nick spoke softly as if his words were toxic and might poison the air around them. "Imagine a sweat lodge, but instead of a carefully-made dome of willows it is an ugly, fearful iron box. It stands in the center of the yard, not a sacred place, but a piece of Hell. It is a place for a person to suffer and die, isolated, untouchable and alone. Alone, you see, but in full view of the other prisoners and guards."

Teleli's eyes widened and he swallowed, looking slightly sick as Nick continued.

The words came pouring out of him now. Nick could not stop it. All the horror he had been feeling was boiling up and demanding he speak. Though still soft, his voice rose and fell with an angry, ragged sarcasm, the sound of a man fighting off despair.

"Imagine, instead of singing and a sage blessing, you are flayed with a bullwhip to within an inch of your life. Then you are dragged to the box and locked inside and left there to cook in the full heat of noonday. Darkness does not bring peace and inner vision. No, **_this_** darkness is there to blind you and frighten you into submission, to remind you that there is no hope, no future, no point. There is no community or family, inside the box or out. There is only being torn away: helpless to reach out, impossible for anyone to reach in and ease the suffering. Instead of prayers for healing, there are threats, condemnation, ridicule, and always, always, the demand for a confession. There is no control, no choice, and no freedom in this sweat. It goes on and on and on - heat, blackness, pain, thirst, isolation - _demanding_ that you give in, _demanding_ that you agree, _demanding_ that you believe: You are alone, you are alone, you are all alone. Your brothers have moved on. Your people and your family are better off without you. Hell is where you belong. Hell is what you deserve."

Nick stopped, breathing hard. Teleli had been listening deeply, in silence, tears in his eyes. Nick realized he was weeping himself. He wiped his eyes impatiently and pointed up the hill.

"Heath chose that. He **_knew_** what it would do to his heart, to his mind. He'd been there. And still he put himself in that monster's hands, so I could get free.

"He's never come back from that, not all the way, not even close to all the way. I miss him. We all miss him." He looked up the trail, empty and still now but for the winter grasses moving in the steady breeze. "I'd never seen him so afraid," he whispered. That iron box hunkered there in Nick's mind, and he could not turn away from the memory of his brother's eyes as they pulled him up out of the dirt: Heath willing him – begging him - to stand down; to take the opening; to get free of that monstrous place.

 _Promise me, Nick_ , he had said, when they first began to see the true depth of the danger they faced. _Follow my lead._

 _I'm trying, Heath, I really am, but –_

"Teleli, I'm afraid. What is this going to be like for him? Going back into the dark - how can that help? Why can't he just come home?"

"You know why he can't come home, Nick. You have seen it. You have said it yourself. A person must be able to hold – to embrace – their whole self, their whole history. I know too well what Me'weh has survived. Such terrible experiences are not easily held. They thrash and grow large and rip at a person like a wolf with her prey. But it can be done, Nick, with compassion, and help, and patience." A faint, sad smile crinkled his eyes. "And time. Some don't survive long enough to heal. The work never ends. They will always be wolves, for one such as your brother. They will rise up in dreams, and there will be times they will tear loose to hunt him in the daytime. But such wolves can be held close, even tamed, sometimes. I believe they can become a source of strength and insight."

Nick held his silence as Teleli broke his gaze to look up toward the hilltop, unseen beyond the pine and oak groves. "What will this sweat lodge be like? How will it help?" He turned back to Nick, smiling more openly now. "You have answered that question too, I think. It is not the dark and the heat and the small space that heals the soul – or that crushes it, Hopa'mu."

Nick narrowed his eyes suspiciously at this sudden use of his Miwok appellation. Teleli met his stare with a look of genuine affection. "Heat, blackness, the holding space – the experience of the body pours energy into what we bring to the sweat. This is why our gratitude is so important. The whole village takes part in this thankfulness. We come into the ceremony grateful for our purpose and our healing, grateful for the ones beside us in the sweat, grateful for the ones outside who chant and tend the fire and carry the hot stones; we give thanks for the village that holds us, for the earth and sky that hold us, for the flow of time and seasons that bring us life. We are grateful. We are connected. The sweat lodge pours energy into that feeling and lifts us all up. Brings us all together. Helps us grow and heal."

Teleli stepped closer and surprised the rancher by placing one hand over Nick's heart. "I do not need to describe what evil energy is conjured in the sweat box of the prison, Hopa'mu. Isolation, guilt, hopelessness, rage, despair. You saw those demons. I could feel it in your words. The torture is not only for the one inside the iron box, Hopa'mu. It sinks its teeth into you as well."

He paused, watching Nick's face as understanding came to him. "You are afraid because you remember being torn away from him. Not able to help. You remember his fear and suffering. But this time, you will be **_with_** your brother, Hopa'mu. He is not alone, and neither are you. This healing is not only for Me'weh. It is for you as well, and your family."


	129. Chapter 128 - Waves

_I belong to my beloved,  
_ _and his desire is for me.  
_ _Come, my beloved, let us go to the countryside,  
_ _let us spend the night in the villages._

 _Let us go early to the vineyards  
_ _to see if the vines have budded,  
_ _if their blossoms have opened,  
_ _and if the pomegranates are in bloom—  
_ _there I will give you my love._

 _Song of Solomon, 7:10-12_

* * *

 ** _The barn, Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

"Oh, Audra, it's beautiful. Just beautiful." Rivka spun around, admiring the glistening blue and gold of the silk fabric. The skirt of the dress flowed in graceful waves with her movement, then came to rest, draping in perfect folds around her slim shape. The color and style blended perfectly with the headscarf that Rivka so treasured from her mother. She threw her arms around Audra, who returned the embrace unreservedly. "I don't know how you managed it, Audra, but thank you, thank you, thank you. I love it." Then she spun again, smiling brilliantly at the women gathered around her and hugging each of them: Victoria, Ilsa, Hannah, and finally her mother, who was both smiling and weeping unashamedly.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you, my Rivkeleh, my joy, my beautiful daughter. We will all dance at your wedding."

Victoria slipped her arm through Audra's and smiled up at her. "It _is_ beautiful, Audra. What a wonderful gift. I knew you were working on this, though…so there's something else up your sleeve, isn't there? What is it?"

"Tomorrow, Mother. You'll find out tomorrow," Audra grinned, her eyes happily following Rivka as she danced around the room.

* * *

 _Brought low, you will speak from the ground;  
_ _your speech will mumble out of the dust.  
_ _Your voice will come ghostlike from the earth;  
_ _out of the dust your speech will whisper.  
_ _But your many enemies will become like fine dust,  
_ _the ruthless hordes like blown chaff._

 _Isaiah 29:4-5_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, January 10, 1875_**

Heath's hands went still as Teleli finished speaking. He rested them now on Nox' neck, his gaze distant as he thought about his brother Nick, and what they had gone through together.

"Nick," he murmured sadly. "It was bad, what he went through. It was torture just as terrible as being inside that box. I knew it was."

He cast his eye around the hilltop site, focusing finally on the low dome of the sweat lodge. The aversion that had been shrouding it like a malignant mist was dissipating with Teleli's words. _He is not alone, and neither are you._ He was still plenty fearful about the ceremony and where it might send his mind, no denying that, but the fear had a recognizable shape now. He could work with that, and he reckoned he could walk into just about anything with Nick in his corner.

"I wish I could have figured out how to get us free without putting him through that. He never wanted to talk about it, any more than I wanted to talk about being _in_ the sweat box. And he seemed to handle it better. Nick is always – always **_himself_** , no matter what."

"And you are not, Me'weh?"

No answer. Nox swung her head around and nudged at his elbow, as if she, too, were waiting for his response. He sighed and turned to lean against the mare's shoulder, watching as she ate the last of the pine nuts from his palm. "Guess I should remember who it is I'm talking to."

"If you had grown up as one of my people, Me'weh, you would be called to be a shaman."

"I don't think I like the sound of that."

"You should not like it. A shaman is usually a leader and a protector, a person who serves, but they live somewhat apart from their own people, because they are so different in how they move through the world. When trouble comes, they often stand in its path – because they are the target, or by choice, because they see the danger approach. It is not a safe or easy life, with us, no matter what sort of shaman one is."

"What _sort_?"

"There are many kinds of ability: plants and herbs; healing with the hands and breath; poisoning; hunting and animals; warfare; dreams and spirits. In each of these, the shaman is open to some part of the world around us that others do not see. They can step in and out of that place: to gain knowledge and understanding; to draw strength; to warn and protect one's people; to heal; to offer guidance; or, if one has a violent heart, to torment and destroy. That Colonel Morgan was such a man." He nodded at Heath's surprised – and pained – look. "Yes, Morgan. I saw him hunt. So did you."

Heath shuddered slightly and nodded.

" _You_ are such a man, Me'weh." Teleli studied the younger man seriously, who scowled at this last comment and began restlessly working on Nox' mane again. She nudged him, feeling the tug of his disquiet in the movement of his hands. His expression softened, as did his touch, and he murmured an apology to her.

"I am not telling you something you have not already seen yourself, Me'weh."

He blew out the breath he had been holding and hung his head. "Sometimes you remind me of Hannah," he said.

"You honor me." Teleli nodded. "She is also such a one. But we were speaking of you."

"What _about_ me?" Tired and irritable, he raked a hand through his hair and turned to face Teleli. "I know damn well I've got a trapdoor under my feet that might drop out any minute. I don't want to move in and out of the world for whatever reason. I just want to keep whatever that door is **_closed_** and get on with my life – and let everyone else get on with theirs."

"You worry that the sweat lodge will push that door open."

"Damn right I worry. Am I wrong?"

"No. No, you are not wrong." They stared at each other, both men wishing in their own way that the path ahead could somehow be easier.

"How -" Heath looked away, fighting a strong urge to stop _thinking_ and just go find some work to do. He tried to collect his thoughts. He remembered the Ghost Dancers watching him somberly as he struggled up to this hilltop that first night. Cowering and overwhelmed as he had felt in that moment, their silent presence had reminded him: Teleli had found a way to live with such open doors in his mind. He didn't just survive, he found a way to give, and learn, and be of service; he found a way to come home. It was possible – and he trusted this man. He grimaced in frustration. "OK. What's your point, Teleli? What is it you want me to see?"

"How are you feeling, Me'weh? In your body, I mean. Do you feel strong?"

Heath gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head.

"So how? Be honest."

"Honest? Most everything hurts. I get winded way too fast, and my strength isn't nearly where it should be." Unconsciously, he rubbed his hand over his chest. " _Should_ ," he repeated darkly, under his breath. "I don't even know what _should_ means for me anymore."

"I have seen you work at it every day, Me'weh. It is a slow process."

"You ain't kiddin'."

"Except, of course, when those girls and the flock were threatened."

Heath went still, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He could see where this talk was going, and he did not like it at all. Teleli was watching him closely. Heath turned away, hands on his hips, only to be confronted with the sight of Charger, placidly cropping at the grass. Over 16 hands tall, the big bay horse was an unavoidable fact. His own battered, depleted condition was also, unfortunately, a fact.

He could feel the weight of Teleli's gaze on his back. His fists clenched and for a moment he wanted to roar in frustration.

 _Be honest. I don't want to say it, but that won't make it go away._

 _" **Dammit**_ ," he huffed. "Alright, dammit. OK. I feel _terrible_. I'm weak, I'm lame, I'm slow as hell, and I got no wind at all. And -" He turned around to meet Teleli's watchful eyes with a stubborn, world-weary glare. "- and I didn't feel **_any_** of that when I went riding after those rustlers. _None_ of it. Not until…not until I -"

Teleli nodded but remained silent.

Heath stared back at him, breathing hard, his jaw tight with the effort it was taking not to run away from this difficult reality.

"Oh _hell_ ," he muttered finally. His shoulders drooped. Fatigue rose up as his angry resistance drained away. He leaned his forearms against the mare's flank for support, and rested his head on his arms.

"I didn't feel any of that until it was over," he said, reluctantly. "Until I…came back."

"Came back?"

He sighed in resignation. "To myself. Came back to myself."

Heath could see, of course, that there was something useful that had occurred in his state of mind. There was no way he could have done what he did to catch those rustlers, as beat up as he still was, not unless -

 _I had to go away to get it done. Not **completely** away, just off to the side._

 _That sounds **crazy**. _

He barely remembered jumping up on Charger. He didn't like that. He wondered if he was just fooling himself, believing he could find a way to live with this, let alone make it useful.

 _So what does this all mean for me, Teleli? Is this just how I'm gonna be from now on? Or am I going to start chipping and cracking again, small fragments falling away, then bigger ones -_

Heath could picture the emotion and the overlapping memories as they had spun around him during that chase. He recognized the maelstrom rattling the walls and windows. It was the life he had lived; it was his history; it was a force that could take him apart and break him into little pieces. Heath had kept some distance on it, this time - but more than that: he saw it had carried him forward like a wave; it had borne him up to do what was needed, and transfused him with something of his native strength and energy.

 _Then it washed me up on the beach and left me there: wet, spitting sand and salt water, and hoping none of the normal people on land would notice what a mess I am._

He gritted his teeth in annoyance and scolded himself away from such thoughts. They didn't help, and they only served to make him feel self-conscious, angry, and burdensome to himself and everyone else. Heath was no stranger to being on the outside of "normal". As the Barkleys well knew, he had always kept his own counsel, and trusted his own instincts no matter if it went against the grain of everyone around him.

Heath now considered the possibility that his **_own_** unease with his state of mind was his biggest obstacle. He had already come to accept – reluctantly - that the sound and fury in his head sometimes offered him warnings, or other insights. He had always been a man who tried to see things – and people - as they truly are, no illusions. Crazy as he might be now, he knew a closed mind really was not a tenable solution for him. What he needed was to learn to trust himself again, even in the midst of the sound and fury. He could handle being roughed up and dumped on the beach from time to time - feeling on the outside - if he could just get that trust back.

He found himself remembering the ocean in San Diego. That one afternoon, sitting with the Levis at the beach. He had been mesmerized by the heavy green swell of the waves.

 _Avram and David were still small, but they could swim like sea lions, and they showed me how to ride the waves…they pulled me into the water and showed me how the ocean could lift you up and carry you weightless like riding the wind. Boy howdy, but those waves could pummel you into the sand, too, if they caught you in the wrong spot. So much power. But those boys would dive right straight **into** the wave when it was crashing down on them, and come out laughing on the other side. It seemed crazy, and it took me plenty of tries before I could get myself to do it, but damned if it didn't work. All that crashing, foaming, heaving power would just flow harmless all around me and roll on toward the beach. _

He glanced at Teleli. "Did the boys take you swimming in the ocean?"

Teleli smiled warmly. "Oh yes. Once I was not sick anymore. And then I swam every day."

 _I knew that already,_ Heath thought, _didn't I? Though how would I…_ He shook his head impatiently, putting that confusing thought aside.

"OK," he said, with some hesitation, "so it helped, this time. Being able to move in and out of – of – of someplace – I don't even know what to call it. You're saying I shouldn't nail all the doors and windows shut, that I can learn to work with this somehow?"

"It is not an easy path, Me'weh, but you are not one to refuse a challenge when you can be of service."

Heath raised his head and narrowed his gaze suspiciously at the Indian. There was a laughing glint in Teleli's eyes, Heath was certain of it.

"Boy howdy, you know which strings to pull, don't you."

Teleli shrugged slightly. "You are also a practical man. I can tell you, as one who knows: trying to close everything out leads to no place you wish to be. It wastes time and energy you could have given to something meaningful. It will not keep the memories away, and in the end all you will have done is locked yourself in a box of your own making."

* * *

 _I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loves: I sought him, but I found him not.  
_ _The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said,_ _Saw you him whom my soul loves?  
_ _It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loves: I held him, and would not let him go._

 _Song of Solomon, 2-4_

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, 4:00 A.M., January 11, 1875_**

"Brother Sam! Brother Sam!"

A small crowd of children - those old enough to make the climb to the sweat lodge – broke from Husu's shepherding to run to Sam Green, who stood laughing with his arms wide.

 _"_ _For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands,_ " he sang, his deep voice echoing across the village. The children began dancing a circle around him, singing a celebratory song in Miwok, in which Sam promptly and enthusiastically joined.

The Levis watched from the barn door, smiling. Solomon and the boys hurried out to join Sam and the children. The Rabbi and Sam, early on, had developed a bantering, enjoyable relationship, and they often sought each other's company. The twins had volunteered to help the big man cart supplies (and elders, who couldn't make the climb) to the top of the hill.

"Oh, Sam," Hadassah murmured fondly. "He is so full of love to give. He so needs a flock to protect. Perhaps he will make his home here." She glanced over her shoulder and then grinned at Rivka. "That tough-as-nails French nurse you have supervising the students seemed rather taken with him at first sight. Who knows where that may lead?"

"She's Belgian, Mama, not French." Rivka laughed softly. "You're right, though. I don't believe I'd ever seen her crack a smile until Sam came blustering in. And he and Husu have found kindred spirits in each other, I think. It would be wonderful if he would stay."

"And you, Rivkeleh? What do you and Heath plan?"

Rivka sighed, her eyes on the faint glow of the fire on the hilltop. It was a sound of happiness, impatience, and yearning all together. She turned to meet her mother's gaze with a brilliant smile, though; Hadassah's heart was lifted, as some of her inevitable maternal worry fell away in the light of her daughter's joy and hope.

"Heath and I plan to dance as husband and wife all around that hilltop up there. We're going to dance the sun up from behind the mountains, and all the people we love best in the world will be there with us. That is," she amended, "once he gets washed up and into some clean clothes. He's going to be very sweaty."

She grew serious then, and looked earnestly into her mother's eyes. "Mama, he is – we are - still finding our way. He has been so nearly lost, so broken – he has fought his way back from so, so far away. You understand this, better than anyone."

Hadassah nodded gravely.

"He **_has_** come back, though. I can feel it. I believe it. He is still terribly ragged on the outside, Mama, but inside...he has been humbled by this, but he is not defeated. He has gained something, I think, in this struggle to come home. The strength of his heart…it seems somehow more rooted. More solid. Enduring." She searched Hadassah's face, hoping she was being understood. "I don't know how else to describe it." She shifted her gaze back to the hilltop fire. "Heath and I - we need time together. He needs time to get healthy and working again; to get reacquainted with himself; to learn his strength and to trust himself, as he always has."

"Will you and Heath stay here, at Sutamasina?"

She nodded. "For now." A wondering smile curved her lips. "I should be due to deliver towards the end of August. We talked about returning to the ranch at the beginning of the summer. Heath had hoped to build a house for us by the fall – but perhaps, he thinks, we could do that sooner." She rested her hands gently over her lower abdomen. It was still far too early to feel anything, though Rivka was aware of the myriad other changes in her body. "For now, we will stay here. There is so much work to do in the hospital and the village itself – water, sanitation, crops, storage, building a dairy – the list goes on. Heath and I can do this, together. You know we work well together," she grinned, and her mother nodded in amused agreement. To Rivka, it sounded like paradise, and she could not wait to take her cowboy in her arms and get started. "And by summer," she added, "Lotte will have found another doctor to step in for me and continue the work here."

They were interrupted by the sound of animated conversation from the direction of the gate, and they turned to see the entire Barkley-Smith household approaching to join the climb to the hilltop. Beyond them, in the lamplight of the gate, another group was gathering for the climb: Moshe and Ilsa, carrying her baby; Raul Montana, with Jed and a petite, dark-haired girl hovering protectively by his elbow; and Frank Sawyer, wrangling an unsteady Jim Roberts up the uneven trail.

There were hugs all around, as the family, Hannah, and Silas joined the two women at the barn door. "Haja told Jarrod and Nick and I that we could go in the sweat lodge too," Audra shared breathlessly. "She told us to dress in light, loose clothing and bring something to change into afterward." She laughed as she looked down at herself. Under her winter coat, she was wearing a long cotton skirt, and had borrowed a cotton button-down shirt of Jarrod's. "The outfit I'm bringing with me for the celebration after is _much_ more attractive than this."

Nick stepped up, threw an arm affectionately over the shoulders of Jarrod and Audra, and grinned broadly at the group. "Well, doesn't it just figure. A birthday and wedding party for our brother Heath that has us hiking uphill, on an empty stomach, _hours_ before the sun is even up. Whatever happened to nice clothes, and a birthday cake? Or champagne? Or for that matter, _any_ kind of party that starts at a normal time of day?"

"Just roll with it, Brother Nick," Jarrod slapped him on the back with a philosophical smile. "We can all take a nap later."


	130. Chapter 129 - Rapids over the Rocks

_The gate of heaven, though it is so wide that the greatest sinner may enter, is nevertheless so low that pride can never pass through it._

 _C.H. Spurgeon_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, before dawn, January 11, 1875_**

Audra was breathless, though not with the exertion of the climb up from the village. She felt, in fact, light on her feet, as if she could fly up the trail like an antelope. As they reached the summit, she could see Haja standing in welcome of the arriving guests; diminutive yet commanding. The headwoman guided the participants to their places for the ceremony with absolute gravity and concentration, and yet under her direction the whole process seemed suffused with humor and a very natural, intimate energy. Audra was fascinated by the feeling. The evidence of material poverty was everywhere, but the hilltop hummed with celebration like a sprawling, affectionate family reunion. The scene unfurled around her, a rough, variegated tapestry, gathered in and richly interlaced with shining cords of high holiness. The Ghost Dancers chanted and danced as they tended the fire; the children laughed and danced around the outer circle, imitating them, and soon the adults were joining in as well. The stars blazed overhead.

It was beautiful, and she was breathless.

 _You and your brothers Nick and Jarrod will come into the inner circle,_ Husu had explained. _Haja will do a blessing for those of us who will go into the sweat lodge. Our families and friends, the children, all the others who are here for this ceremony, they remain around the outside until after the sweat. They are here to give love, and thanks, and their prayers and songs strengthen all of us. They help us as we ask for healing, and they are here to welcome us home._

Audra kissed her mother and John as she parted from them to join the group at the center. She gave her mother her coat to hold, giggled once again at her rather silly outfit, and then curtsied beautifully to them both before she ran off.

"Heath! Heath!"

She flew straight to the brother she hadn't seen in over a month. The smile he gave her as she ran into his open arms scattered the midwinter darkness and warmed her like a blaze of summer sunshine. He caught her up and hugged her tight, lifting her off the ground.

"Audra," she heard him whisper. "Audra. Audra. I missed you so much." She wrapped her arms around him. She could feel the changes in him through the loose cotton shirt he wore. She never wanted to let him go. She burst into tears.

He didn't tell her not to cry. He just held her. He told her how much he loved her, and all the ways she had been with him while he was gone, and how proud he was of her. How he had seen her ride into the mountains, and how he knew he could count on her to get Rivka and Ilsa safely home, and how sorry he was that he had been gone so long.

She didn't tell him to come home. She just held him, and thought how reckless it was, that the souls we so cherish in one another should be housed in such breakable, impermanent vessels. She held onto him until she no longer feared he would vanish as soon as she let go. Audra held onto him, until Nick finally interrupted.

"Excuse me, Miss Barkley. Let me get a look at this boy." Audra stepped back, and smiled wetly at Heath. He returned the smile, his eyes somber and thoughtful. He studied her silently for another moment or two, then squeezed her hands gently and turned to face Nick.

"Nick." The deep, easy drawl of his voice was noticeably rough around the edges. "Thanks for being here."

Watching Heath as closely as she was, the depth of meaning – the profound relief - behind those rather simple words was as loud to Audra just then as if Heath had shouted it. Moreover, she realized: for all his bluster, Nick had much the same look in his eyes.

"Are you kidding?" Nick pronounced, stepping up to Heath as if he planned to start an argument. He gestured into the air around him. "Where else would I be?"

Letting go of Audra's hand, Heath turned to square off with this taller brother, who clearly also outsized him now by a good twenty pounds of muscle. Audra was certain she saw a hint of laughter tugging at the corner of his mouth as he narrowed his eyes up at Nick. Jarrod drew a breath to say something to defuse or distract – then stopped himself, as Audra caught his eye with a grin and a quick shake of her head.

Audra stared at the two of them. It was a sight so familiar, and yet so profoundly changed.

 _Nick and Heath. Heath and Nick._

Audra's earliest memories were woven through with Nick's elemental, vivid presence. For as long as she could remember, his dark hair, his energy, his strength, his laugh, his infernal noise – it all tumbled around her like a force of nature. He had been thirteen when she was born, a wild mustang of a boy who was of no mind to stay indoors and coddle a baby girl, but who was jealous of her attention and eager for her affection nonetheless. Nick wanted to be the one who made her laugh, and who dried her tears; he wanted credit for every milestone she reached. He wanted to be her hero, her clown, her greatest frustration, and her protector - and in all of these, she considered with a smile, he had largely succeeded.

Heath, on the other hand, turned eight the year she was born. While Nick was terrifying his mother by tossing a giggling baby girl as high as the rafters, Heath was mucking stalls, setting charges in the mines, and dodging his Uncle Matt's big fists.

But then Heath came to them, not even two years ago. Quiet and fair to Nick's dark and loud, he was steady and serious and strong as an ox. The first few months between them were rough, to say the least. Eventually, they found a way. Whether they were working side-by-side, or facing off in an argument, they kept finding a way forward, like rapids around the rocks. Audra couldn't put her finger on when it happened, exactly, but soon it was as if it had always been that way.

All these months, she knew, Nick had been mourning, suffering the loss of Heath's presence by his side. Unlike Heath - whose brutal fight to survive over the summer had been fodder for gossip and newspaper editorials - to the rest of the world, Nick appeared as he always had. He was unharmed, healthy, confident, and well-fed; he was a powerful man, heir to the Barkley Ranch, free to come and go as he pleased. People were mostly kind, or polite – or even genuinely caring - but the world in which he moved, for the most part, did not see his loss, at least not in the way Nick did.

There were the occasional incidents: the local rancher or businessman, or worse, some old friend of Father's, who would reach out to Nick with a different kind of commiseration.

 _"Hoo, boy, that by-blow of your Pa's was lookin' a whole lot worse for the wear, last I saw 'im, Nick. But I ain't seen 'im around lately. You all chase 'im off somewhere finally? Wouldn't blame ya -"_

Such conversations never went far. Nick ended them, with his fists if necessary, but it brought him no comfort, and Audra's heart ached for him.

She had wondered, too, if Nick still felt some guilt for surviving Nevada relatively unscathed, or if he struggled with the memory of what Risley had done to them both. Over all these months, and even with everything they had been through together, Nick spoke hardly a word about what happened in that prison camp - - hardly a word, that is, until earlier in the evening, as the family gathered.

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, evening, January 10, 1875_**

 _Husu had come with Haja to tell Audra and her brothers that they were invited to go into the sweat lodge. "Haja has meditated on this, and she says, you are warriors who have gone into battle with Me'weh and Teleli – as brothers and sister to each other and to our village. Haja feels the purification and homecoming will be best if you come within. She feels this will -" He paused, waiting for her to finish speaking. "- this will balance the circle. You balance – you heal each other, she says."_

 _Under Haja's watchful supervision, Husu went on to describe the conduct and etiquette of the sweat lodge ceremony: how they would enter and exit the lodge; what the intention and prayers would be for each session; what to expect, physically, regarding the close quarters, heat, steam, and total darkness. They were instructed on what to say and how to exit the shelter if one felt unable to remain inside._

 _The family listened carefully, and asked a few questions. Jarrod, Nick, and Audra readily indicated their willingness to participate. Haja and Husu moved off to continue their own preparations. Audra and Jarrod were quickly engaged in a wide-ranging discussion with the rest of the family about what they had heard. John and Victoria were deeply relieved that the siblings would be with Heath for this ceremony. Silas worried about the excessive heat; Hannah and Rivka reassured on that account, but recommended the three drink plenty of fluids before, during, and after. There was some talk about how to dress. Hadassah, drawing on what she learned in her travels from Southern Paiute elders, recommended all three bring a small gift offering to the sweat lodge. Rivka contributed a sheaf of aromatic juniper from her medicine cabinet, from which Audra quickly created four bundles tied with colorful cloth from her bandana._

 _"Why four?" Jarrod wondered._

 _"I made one for Heath," she replied brightly._

 _Throughout all of this, Nick had remained silent, watching the distant fire on the hill. Victoria went to him and slipped her arm through his. Pulling him close to her side, she followed his brooding gaze upward, and spoke gently._

 _"What is it, Nick? Can you tell us?"_

 _He looked down at her, and then at the gathered group, their faces expectant and loving. He took a deep, slightly shaky breath. "I am -" He cleared his throat and started again. "I'm grateful," he said, surprising all of them, because he looked on the verge of tears. He seemed a bit surprised himself._

 _"Haja keeps saying how important it is to tell what happened. To tell our stories, right? The good, and the bad." He looked at Jarrod for confirmation, who nodded seriously but said nothing to interrupt. "I want to tell you all –" He stopped, then said, "That's not exactly true. I don't want to tell any of this. But I want you all to know what happened in that camp in Nevada. I want you to know what Heath chose, to get me free. I want you all to understand what he did for me."_

 _"And -?" Jarrod prompted, stepping closer and studying Nick's face as if he were testifying on the stand. Jarrod had been there, witness to the immediate aftermath. Nick had spoken then, in the moment of crisis, but never again since, in any depth. Jarrod waited, hoping he was right about what Nick would say next._

 _"And – and what I had to do. What I had to do for him." He held Jarrod's steady gaze, both of them remembering. "There is more than one kind of Hell. I am grateful that I can be with him now, and grateful I don't have to be alone with it either."_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, before dawn, January 11, 1875_**

Nick had grabbed Heath by the shoulders and was holding him out at arm's length, regarding him critically.

Heath held his gaze with a slight grin and tipped his head slightly toward the deerskin shelter. "Gonna be cramped, pitch black, and hot as hell. Teleli tells me that when the Water Pourer douses the hot stones in the middle, and the steam comes billowing up, he says most everyone feels like they're suffocating."

"Huh." Nick regarded the hut suspiciously. "Sounds like fun."

"Don't it, though. Come to think of it, it's almost everything I try to avoid, rolled up in one neat little package." He was watching Nick's expression affectionately as he spoke, and grinned a little wider when his brother shot him a look of worry. "Truth be told, big brother, that damn thing's had me all-overish from the moment we put it together. I just been runnin' in circles up here, barkin' at it in my head like a nervous hound dog."

Nick couldn't help but smile at that image.

"But I won't leave you out there alone this time, Nick."

Nick laughed aloud at that and hugged his smiling brother – then leaned back once more to look him over.

"You got a shave and a haircut. Just how did you manage that?"

Heath ran a hand over his face. "Wouldn't be fittin' if I didn't at least try not to look like a wild man for the occasion. Gonna dance with my beautiful bride tonight." He winked at Audra. "Peter and I worked out a trade. He helped me out with the barbering, and I helped him rig up a surprise for Ilsa. And no – I ain't tellin' what it is."

Before Audra could press him on the question, Haja's voice rang out over the hilltop.

"Me'weh!"

"It is time," Husu said, coming to stand beside them.


	131. Chapter 130 - A Conscious Endeavor

_Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened...to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light._

 _Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me . . . We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake…by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour._

 _Henry David Thoreau, "Walden"_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, Dawn, January 11, 1875_**

The drums began. Haja raised her arms and felt the low, steady thrumming encircle her. She turned, slowly, to look at the warriors who had gathered in a circle around her, those who would be going into the sweat lodge. The drumming moved through her bones, and lifted her spirit into the trance that would allow her to guide this ceremony.

At her feet, in the center of the medicine wheel, was a large stone upon which lay tokens of gratitude: a deer antler; small bundles of tobacco, sweet grass, sage, juniper, and cedar; a small, intricately woven basket full of acorns; a carved wooden pipe; a drinking skin full of fresh water; and a blade of obsidian. Husu set beside this a small clay pot of glowing coals, and came to stand beside her, awaiting her signal.

She swayed, and sang, and circled the central stone four times. She stopped, facing east, and stood quiet, feeling the energy of the circle.

 _Balanced. It is balanced. There is great strength here, great love._

The air was still. As she had done with the sweat lodge itself, Haja first would cleanse the medicine circle, and invite in energies to protect and strengthen the people present for this healing. Husu handed her the eagle feather, and the abalone shell in which he had placed a few fronds of cedar. He lifted a glowing ember from a clay pot with a utensil made of antler, and placed it in the shell. The aromatic smoke rose up and brought the scent of ancient wisdom to those around the wheel, and all the family around them; it embraced and consecrated the hilltop and the village beyond.

Haja wafted the smoke upward, singing thanks to Grandfather Sky, to the clouds and the stars; downward, she brushed the ground and sang thanks to Grandmother Earth.

 _All our mothers, all our fathers, Grandfather Sky, Grandmother Earth,_  
 _Guide our feet on this path._  
 _We begin today, with this dawn, in this place, with these ones we love around us._

 _We ask for strength, as we lead our children and ourselves through the darkness._  
 _We ask for wisdom and compassion, as we learn to heal ourselves, and each other._  
 _We give thanks for the blessings of the earth and a home to shelter our children and our elders._  
 _We give thanks for the warriors and exiles who have come back to us, and those who stood by us in the face of death. We honor the memory of so many we have lost._

 _All our mothers, all our fathers, Grandfather Sky, Grandmother Earth,_  
 _Bless these ones who seek into the darkness. Heal them and bring them safely home._

 _Grandmother Earth is our beginning; she gives us life; she gives us what we need to live; she guides us and teaches us to live with wisdom, honor and compassion. Inside her darkness, with gratitude, we go back to the beginning, to the source of life. It is a sacred place. It is a place to give thanks. In that darkness, we pray for each person to find what they need for their journey._

 _We begin today, with this dawn, in this place, with these ones we love around us._  
 _Guide our feet on this path._  
 _All our mothers, all our fathers, Grandfather Sky, Grandmother Earth,_  
 _We thank you._

Swaying in time with the drums, Husu translated; his song was a quiet echo that reached out to gather in the hearts of everyone present. Together they sang to each of the four directions; to the ancestors; and to the inmost spirit, asking for peace and guidance on this healing path. The cleansing cedar smoke carried their prayers outward and upward.

The sky showed just a hint of rose-gold light beyond the snow-capped mountains. Husu brought Haja the shell again, now with sage, and he stayed by her as she blessed each person in the circle. Her trance had deepened, and Husu watched her carefully, warmed by the timeless joy that radiated from her dark eyes and weathered face.

Walking outward to the east, Haja came first to Audra, who was both smiling and weeping. To Haja's wide-open senses, even in the dark, the girl blazed like a cloudless sunrise.

Haja had watched her, all through those grieving weeks of December. The threat of massacre had passed, but Haja's people were still dying. The ravaging of disease was easing, but in December, every day, at least one family lost a parent, a sister, a brother, a child…Audra had lost a beloved brother, it seemed, but even in the face of death all around, she chose not to flee, or to grieve alone. She drew Rivka out so they could support each other, while she helped where she safely could around the hospital.

Like Me'weh, Audra's affection for the children was evident, and the little ones were naturally drawn to her. In this she found a kindred spirit in Husu, and she eagerly joined with him to plan a school building. Audra's idea to have the children paint the prison gate brought such joy to the whole village, Haja was sure the story would become a legend for generations. Compassion, energy, and stubborn, practical love: these were Audra's gifts, and she gave generously. Even deep in the ceremony as Haja was, the girl still brought a smile to her face.

"Audra," she murmured, as she wafted the sage around her, "truly you are a daughter of the east. You are a blessing, a golden eagle in flight. You are _Etu_ , Sun Rising from the Hills."

Haja now moved to her right, in a sun-wise, clockwise direction, and considered Jed, who returned her gaze respectfully. "Hili'cha, the brave mountain lion," she sang, as she lifted the shell to bathe him in smoke. "You leaped into the belly of Yayali to save Me'weh. You are swift and quiet because your heart is good, and your soul is free. Twice you are an orphan and your father is unknown, but you have a home, and you are loved. And this also is true: there is love and family for you here as well. You strengthen and balance this circle."

She came next to Hekeke. "Brave one, sister-in-law, we have all prayed and grieved for you, and now we all rejoice for you as your family is brought back together." Hekeke bowed her head as Haja blessed her. She whispered her thanks for her husband's safe return, and then looked across the circle once again to meet her husband's yearning gaze with her own.

Notaku, tall as he was, bowed, and finally knelt to receive Haja's blessing. He looked into her dark eyes with gratitude and a gentle smile. "You stand to the south, my cousin," she said, studying his face. "We have found a home, and you have found trust - and the gentleness that always was your true heart. Now you can be a healer and a guardian of your village, as you were meant to be."

Next to Notaku was a Ghost Dancer. He was young, and awed by Haja's ceremonial presence. He accepted her blessing with silent humility. "Lokni. We welcome the Chakkah home. We welcome you home, child. Thank you for keeping safe this part of our spirit."

She turned now to Hopa'mu. He stood beside Me'weh. This brother was a big, restless, protective presence; so protective, in fact, that the energy of it nearly masked his own fears. Nearly, but not entirely. Haja had learned enough of the brother's recent trials to sense what demons might burden Hopa'mu.

She would have placed this fiery brother to the south, as he seemed to her more youthful than his years would suggest. She had wondered about that. She remembered the silent, watchful, restless boy of so many years ago, whose whole attention was for the Barkley father. Hopa'mu now was as different from that boy as a full-grown Sequoia was from a sapling. As with Audra, she was powerfully aware of the strength of his spirit. He had deep roots - and yet he seemed so young.

She thought back to what Teleli had shared of his talk with Hopa'mu. _Perhaps it is because he is learning so much, so fast, with this new brother of his, s_ he had considered. _And - he is joyful at heart. Perhaps he will always seem young._

Regardless, though, Haja had seen immediately that this warm-blooded, young-old brother needed to stand to the west, beside Me'weh. She was certain it would have unbalanced the circle to do otherwise.

"Today you are south and west, Hopa'mu." She added sweet grass to the sage, and guided the blended smoke around him. "You stand by your brother so you can protect each other, and heal together. You are generous with your strength and your love. Love can guide your hand and direct your path; it will bring you clear vision. Go into the dark with thankfulness, Hopa'mu, and ask for what you need. We all pray together for the easing of pain and the healing of wounds."

She could see him grow calmer, though she was aware of the effort he was making to rise above his fear. He was not alone in this.

 _Everyone who enters this ritual with honesty must face some fear. How much more was this true for these warriors, who had fought so many battles and gathered here to come home?_

She heard him take a deep breath. He straightened, glanced at Me'weh beside him, and then resolutely met Haja's gaze. He spoke his thanks to her. She was moved by the trust she saw offered in his eyes, and so she spoke to that.

"Trust is courage, Hopa'mu. You honor us."

Me'weh, she could tell, was paying close attention to her words, and to his brother's spirit. As she stepped before him, his eyes remained on the brother for a few heartbeats, before he turned to face Haja.

Trust she had seen in Hopa'mu, but that concept did not adequately describe the place from which Me'weh looked back at her. She could barely see the strange sky color of his eyes, so dilated were the pupils; yet their very blackness reflected to her with perfect clarity the rising light of dawn behind her.

"There is a dawn in you," she heard herself say.

He reacted to that, though she did not know at first if this was fear, or simply surprise. Haja did not know where those words had come from, but clearly, they were words Me'weh recognized. There was a blink, a quick intake of breath, an infinitesimal shift back, away – then he swallowed, and steadied himself.

She did not pursue this; Me'weh understood the words, and she felt that was all that was needed for now. There was something else to learn.

 _More than just trust:_ Me'weh stood before her as a man who knew himself to be lost.

She wrapped him in a blanket of sweet grass smoke, wanting to offer him some comfort. He drew another breath, lifted his chin, and spoke words of thanks. She could see in him the flame of hope he was sheltering in his soul.

"You were lost, Me'weh, on your way here."

He raised his eyes and looked past her then, to the bright glow of the consecrated fire within which the stones were heating. The fire was positioned in alignment with the east-facing opening of the sweat lodge. Once the participants were inside, and the first stone had been brought into the lodge and blessed, that path – between the fire circle and the stones in the heart of the lodge – would be protected as a sacred, umbilical connection, not to be stepped upon or crossed until the end of the ritual.

The role of Fire Keeper, then, was much honored, and critical for the ceremony. The Keeper would tend the fire, and prepare the stones; bring the stones to the sweat lodge at the proper time and with the proper respect; and stand as guardian over the lodge and the spirit path to the sacred fire.

Me'weh looked searching toward the fire. Haja understood it was the Keeper his eyes sought, and followed his gaze to the small figure silhouetted there.

"Hannah," he said softly. He nodded to himself, gravely. For a long moment he looked at her, seemingly grateful for her presence, but lost in memories. Haja saw him shiver, once - and then he shifted his focus back to her words, keeping his eyes on hers with a conscious effort.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I was."

She was aware that both Teleli, on his left, and Hopa'mu, on his right, were listening closely.

"How did you get back, Me'weh?"

The memory of that fall into timeless chaos rose like a whirlwind, as he made an honest effort to answer her question. The rise in tension – the struggle with despair - was clear in his face. He met her eyes again.

"I don't know." His jaw tightened briefly in frustration. "I don't know. I just – just came back."

She nodded, her body swaying slightly to the soft rhythm of the drums that encircled them. "You kept climbing, Me'weh. Why?"

"Why?" he echoed, surprised. "That was – that, on the trail - that was Hell. I guess - I just kept moving."

"Hell is not on the trail, Me'weh. It is in you."

He did take a step back, then. His breathing grew more tense and rapid. He stared, questioning – no, pleading - into her eyes; he was struggling to understand her intent, and fighting just as hard not to drown under the despair her words provoked. On either side of him, Hopa'mu growled protectively, while Teleli, no less vigilant, moved closer and kept his eyes on Haja.

"I don't – I don't know why," he said finally, his gaze searching the dark for an answer, or perhaps a way to escape her words. His eyes found his eldest brother - Ta'chi Aše'li, Big Brother Coyote.

 _This_ brother Haja had placed to the North, to stand in the position of wisdom, clarity, and the strength of Grandfather Sky. Peter and Istu stood to either side of him.

Ta'chi Aše'li had been watching and listening as closely as the others; in fact, Haja was sure he had been waiting for Me'weh to look to him. Their eyes met, and Aše'li merely nodded to him, very slightly. It was a small gesture - just a hint of a smile in his sky-colored eyes – but it spoke loudly to Me'weh, and helped him grow calm and see clearly. He tried again to answer Haja's question.

"I was lost," he said to Aše'li, and then to Haja. "I don't know how I got there, or how I got back. I had no control, no power, nothing to bargain with. Hell was in my head, and caused me to know it could take me any time. I got the message. I ain't nothin' but dust on the ground.

"I had no more illusions. No promises or guarantees. The only thing I could do was hope. It was all I had. Peter, and Nox, and Ilsa; these Ghost Dancers, and Teleli; they reminded me to hope. I am grateful for that. That was why I kept climbing. I have so much love around me, but without hope...I would never be able to come home."

Haja stepped closer and stared up into his eyes.

"Me'weh, you stand in the West. Grandmother Moon is full. She reflects the rising sun, even as she moves into darkness. She knows Death. She knows Change, and Loss. She knows Birth, and the Hope and Dreams that flow from the darkness. Her blessings are upon you, child of the West. She will bring you comfort and healing."

He stared down at her, speechless and mesmerized by the intensity of her invocation. The fire crackled in the expectant silence, as they all waited on her words.

"Grandmother Moon knows, Me'weh, that we are all dust. All of us. No…guarantees." She swept the eagle feather in a graceful arc around him. "What you lost on the trail, Me'weh, was an illusion. What you kept was your hope, and your love. You reflect that back to us, even as you face the darkness. There is a dawn in you, Me'weh, and you are not lost."


	132. Chapter 131 - Full Circle

_Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being._

 _And I saw the sacred hoop of my people was one of the many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy…_

 _But anywhere is the center of the world._

 _Black Elk, 1863 - 1950_

* * *

The sun rose like a shout into a clear blue sky, flooding the snow-capped western slopes with brilliant color and deep lavender shadows. A new song with drums and rattles rose up from the gathering on the hilltop in response, while excited children whooped like coyotes.

 _All my mothers. All my fathers._

They had gathered outside the dome. The fire breathed heat and movement into the crisp, still morning. Through the veil of moving air, Hannah looked across to Heath, whose eyes met hers with love and a flood of memories. She remembered her overwhelming fear, as she ran through the forest, following a trail of killing and smoke to find a village going up in flames; she remembered overwhelming joy, as she reached blindly into the violence of fire and smoke, and by the grace of God, pulled those two boys to safety.

 _Thank you, thank you, praise you, Lord. Thank you. Thank you._ She marveled at the sight of her boy standing with Teleli and Husu to one side, and his brothers and sister to the other. She nodded in time to the drums around them, and sang her quiet praise for the love, faith, hope - and luck - that they and she had survived, and could be together on this day, in this place.

 _Leah, Rachael, be with our boy as he goes into the dark. Help him set down some of that burden he carries. He has known so much evil. He has come so far, but he is tired, children, so tired. Hold him in your love. Help him keep watching for the sunrise._

Nox whinnied just then, and trotted into the middle of another circle dance in which Rivka and Ilsa were now participating. Avram, David, and Sam prowled through the dance as well, pretending to be bears, and periodically chasing the dancers at the direction of whichever child was perched on their shoulders. Nox pranced in place, shook her massive head, and then stood tall and alert, staring directly at Heath. Laughing, Rivka had taken refuge from the bears beside the horse. Noticing Nox' sudden attention, she turned to see Heath preparing to go into the sweat lodge. Nox whinnied again. He looked up. Rivka spun once for him in her blue-and-gold dress; he put a hand to his heart, and smiled.

There was hope, and the beginnings of peace in that smile, and Hannah was glad to see it. Feeling some peace herself on that account, she turned back to tend the fire. Husu called to her.

"Amà'chi Wati'ka."

 _Grandmother Acorn,_ she thought, laughing quietly to herself. _That's me. Come end of summer, I pray, I'll be grandmother to the little one Rivka now carries inside._ That thought led her to the prayer that every day rose to her lips from the deepest part of her; the mother's prayer she had offered up and sent out into the world every day for almost thirty years, and would, she knew, for the rest of her life.

 _Asa, my Asa, wherever you are, my son, I pray you are safe and happy. I pray you have a peaceful heart. Know that you were loved. You will always, always be loved._

At Husu's signal, she pulled on mitts of buckskin to protect her hands, and drew the first stone from the fire using an implement made from two large deer antlers. With the help of Moloku - another of Teleli's companions - she carried this "ancestor" along the short path to the sweat lodge and placed it in the pit at the very center of the enclosure.

"All my mothers. All my fathers," they murmured together.

Husu entered the hut, circled the ancestor stone clockwise, and then sat down before it, greeting it as the "creator" stone with a prayer of thanks. He sprinkled small bits of fresh cedar and tobacco over the ancestor, filling the hut with a rich aroma. He signaled to Hannah, and she and Moloku brought three more ancestors, one at a time. He honored each one as it was placed in the pit, with a prayer and a sprinkling of cedar.

Husu's expression was uncharacteristically serious, and showed his deep concentration. He was to be the conductor of this sweat. This was a role of great responsibility, usually reserved for elder individuals with considerably more seniority and experience. Moreover, this was the first such ritual held by his village in many years, living as they had been as refugees for so long. This ceremony was intended not only to heal their warriors and their village; it was a consecration of their new home. He was acutely aware of the trust his sister was placing in him.

The headwoman had appointed Husu to this task with firm certainty. Haja had been fifteen, apprenticed to Papati, when her brother Husu was born. Their father had reluctantly taken another wife, a few years after Teleli and Haja's mother was killed. This young woman bore Husu, but died in the birthing. Their father became increasingly distant and angry. As she had done for Teleli, so did Haja become more than sister to Husu; she mothered him, and guided his training as a shaman and eventual leader.

Husu accepted her decision with trust, but he was humbled by it and nervous as well. He had turned anxiously to Teleli, and welcomed his brother's brusque, plain-speaking reassurance. He caught Teleli's eye, and Hekeke's, before he ducked into the shelter, holding their nods of encouragement close to his heart.

The four ancestors were ready for the first "door": the first of four rounds for the sweat. He slowed his breathing and settled himself to feel the spirit of the enclosure. Powerful energies could rise up, often stronger with each successive round, and it was the responsibility of the conductor to be aware and help the ceremony remain balanced and healthy. In order to do that, one first must be balanced in one's self. Husu pictured a wind-blown lake, calming into stillness, and becoming as clear as a mirror reflecting the sky. He exhaled, and nodded to Amà'chi Wati'ka. It was time for the warriors to enter.

"All my mothers. All my fathers."

They each murmured these words as, one at a time, they knelt and crawled into the opening of the hut. Audra entered first, moving sun-wise within the hut to sit in the east by the entrance; the others followed in order so that they were gathered within the enclosure just as they had been around the medicine wheel. The flap remained open, and Amà'chi Wati'ka handed to Husu an earthen jar of water with a wooden ladle, to pour on the stones at the proper moment.

As they had entered and gotten settled, while there was still light, Heath took in the faces around him. He tried to put aside his uncomfortable awareness that he was seated as far from the door as it was possible to be.

Peter sat beside Jarrod, eyes wide and taking in everything. His return to health had been a wonder, galloping on the heels of the miraculous reunion of his family and the birth of his daughter. Still, Peter had his own share of painful, frustrating physical injuries to rehabilitate, as well as a brutal repertoire of nightmares born of the horrible violence he had experienced. These were struggles with which Heath was familiar; he freely offered Peter his ear, his arm, and his open heart to help the young man and new father. Moreover, Peter, Istu, and Heath had combined their respective talents - in cobbling, basket-weaving, woodwork and harness repair - to construct for Peter a sturdy and highly functional prosthetic leg. He had been practicing with it. He intended to put it on after the sweat and surprise Ilsa by asking her to dance. He smiled across to Heath, who gave him a thumbs-up.

Two of the three Ghost Dancers were in the circle, watching Heath, as they seemed always to do. Heath, at least, had names for them now. Lokni, whose name meant _rain dripping through the roof_ , was the youngest; Teleli had said he tried to send this boy back to the village two years ago, but he had great love for Teleli and refused to leave. The other was Kaliska, _coyote chasing deer_. He was older, naturally somber, but kind-hearted and wise. Haja had seated him beside Jarrod - _Big Brother Coyote,_ Heath thought with a smile. Outside, assisting Hannah, was the third, Moloku. His name signified the condor, and it was well suited to his long reach and steady strength.

Notaku looked serene where he hunkered between Hekeke and Lokni. The big man had been dying of bitterness and helpless rage, Heath remembered, the day they first came face-to-face. Notaku had tried to kill him, drowning as he had been in that time of soul-death. Heath was moved nearly to tears, now, to see the older man so much more at peace.

Hekeke, beside him, was beautiful in her fierce joy. She and Teleli barely looked away from each other. Heath found himself impressed by their compliance with Haja's orders not to reunite until after the ceremony.

Audra was directly across from him, and there passed between them volumes of unspoken communication. He worried about her; she rolled her eyes and gave him a grin to tell him he was being silly and over-protective. She had her own worry for him; he winked and tipped his head toward Nick to let her know he had big brother bear to keep him out of trouble. She looked skeptical. Heath, under his breath, pointed this out to Nick, saying Audra clearly believed Nick and she should switch places. This riled up Nick's territoriality – never a difficult thing to do, in Heath's experience – that also had the intended effect of helping Nick shake off his own jitters. Feeling a little easier now himself, Heath shared an affectionate look with Jarrod, who was watching the entire scene with amusement.

Jed, too, was following the exchange. He was sitting loose-limbed next to Audra, looking as comfortable as a man relaxing on his own front porch. He raised his eyebrows solicitously at Heath and gestured as if to invite him to sit over there by the door. Heath responded to his invitation with a narrow look that made both Jarrod and Audra grin. Nick chuckled quietly beside him.

"Kid learned quick how to get a rise outta you," he muttered. "Maybe he can show me a thing or two."

Heath glanced at Jarrod. He was regarding Jed with a look of sober, peaceful belief.

That face: Heath knew it well. He would never forget it. It was the face of the man who walked over to him through drifting clouds of gunsmoke and death to greet a new brother. Sitting alone in that farmyard two years ago, with his hands shaking and his ears still ringing from rifle fire, Heath was not expecting any kind of greeting - on the contrary. Just the night before, he had been thrown out of the Barkley house and run off as a con-man drifter. That morning, he was just trying to settle himself down, roll a smoke, and decide where he would go next to look for work. The offered cigar was surprising, and welcome; Jarrod's look of sober, peaceful belief – well, that was an unexpected blessing, and he would never forget it.

Heath now looked at Nick sidelong, debating in himself. Feeling Heath's silent focus, Nick turned his head enough to raise his eyebrows in a questioning look. Heath seemed about to speak, but then a sudden intuition prompted him to shift his gaze to Audra and Jed instead. Audra's eyes were on Heath. She was _staring_ at him, in fact, with an expression of astonished understanding.

It was unavoidable. Jarrod believed, and had for some time now, Heath was certain. As for Audra – Heath knew her heart, once seeing, would not look away.

He took a breath and looked to Jed, who had been studying all four of them with an affectionate half-smile. Feeling Heath's eyes on him, Jed nodded once, and inclined his head toward Nick.

 _Go ahead, it's OK. It'll be OK._

Nick's questioning gaze moved from Heath, to Audra, to Jarrod, and finally to Jed.

"Yeah, Jed learned quick," Heath acknowledged softly. "He learned right quick. Just like I did with you, big brother."

Nick inhaled in surprise. He regarded the young deputy as if he had never seen him before; Heath could practically see all the fragments of impression, memory, and feeling falling into place in Nick's mind. Then, to the great joy of his siblings, Nick smiled, bright as the sunrise.

"All my mothers. All my fathers." Husu sprinkled sage on the hot stones. "This first door we dedicate to the east, to the direction of the sunrise, the place of new beginnings. We offer sage and call upon the spirit of Eagle, who soars high and sees clearly. We pray for clear vision to understand what we seek in this ceremony, and we ask for strength to walk the circle of our lives with courage and honesty. We give thanks for the gift of a new day."

Heath met Jed's suddenly bashful gaze with a smile of his own, seeing a happiness there behind the discomfiture. _I give thanks for this family and for that new brother over there,_ he thought, _who jumped into the monster's belly to drag me out._

Haja's words from the circle ebbed and flowed within him. His path – his spirit – it was a river flowing behind, before, and all around him; sometimes swift and terrifying; then gentle and easy; but Heath could see: the river was always just – _itself_.

 _What you lost on the trail, Me'weh, was an illusion. What you kept was your hope, and your love._

He knew well what it was to be choked down to dry dust; he knew what it took to wait on that thin trickle of hope from deep underground; to _dig_ for it, sometimes, desperate, dying, and barehanded. More than ever, now, he knew that trickle could rise back up, deep and wide; full of green, generous life; enough to bring a desert valley to bloom. He knew, in due time, it would carry him to the sea.

 _Grandmother Moon knows loss, and change, and death, Me'weh. She knows that we are all dust. All of us. No…guarantees._

 _What you kept was your hope, and your love. You reflect that back to us, even as you face the darkness. There is a dawn in you, Me'weh, and you are not lost._

Earlier, Teleli had given Heath a simple description of the sweat ceremony: four rounds of steam, each one about half an hour, each one typically hotter than the previous, as more ancestor stones are welcomed in each time. The flap is thrown open between each round, on the signal of the conductor, and water is passed around. A person may leave, if necessary, by saying "All my mothers. All my fathers", and circling around to be let out by the conductor.

 _"Each "door" is dedicated to one of the four directions,"_ Teleli had explained, " _with prayers for a different focus each time."_

 _"First is to the east, the beginning: prayers are for clear vision of our path, and our intention for the sweat. Then to the south, the direction of the heart: we call up love and compassion for others and ourselves. We pray to walk our path with joy. We seek to accept that to be guided by the heart will also bring us pain._

 _"During the first round, people are getting used to the heat, the dark, and the steam – it is normal to feel fear at first. It is like learning how to breathe again, like a newborn baby. The first door is the beginning. It is during the second round that most begin to feel open to the spirit realm._

 _"The third round is to the west, the direction of inner awareness: we ask for healing and balance, self-awareness, courage and acceptance of change and death. The meditation here can go very, very deep. Last is to the north, the direction of elder guidance and wisdom: we pray for understanding and inner peace, and we seek our own healing. There are prayers to find peace in the silences, and often most of the last round is silent, as the healing come into each individual person, according to what they need. When the time is right, the conductor will give a last song, the flap is opened, and we go out in a circle as we came in. Then we go wash, and dress, and eat, and dance."_

 _Teleli_. Heath felt his presence close beside him, warm against his shoulder. The trust Heath felt in the older man went a long way to helping him even tolerate just sitting inside the hut with the flap open and the sun shining outside.

 _How many times during that trek through the mountains, or on this hilltop, have he and I sat just like this, looking out at the mountains, or the endless desert of Death Valley? So much has passed between us – he has shared with me parts of his history he has never been able to speak before, knowing I could understand. I know that was helpful for him…but what he did for me…I owe him my life – my sanity – whatever it is that makes a life worth living. The only way to repay that, I think, is to give that same help to someone else, wherever I can._

Heath felt profoundly grateful. He listened to Husu sing, and knew his first prayer was this: that in time he could give back even a fraction of the courage, wisdom and compassion he had received from the people around him.

Husu filled a ladle with water and nodded to Hannah. The flap was closed. The darkness was complete.

Heath had a passing thought of admiration for Peter's leatherwork, as not a single spot or chink of light could be seen within the hut. Then came a loud hiss as Husu ladled water over the stones, the enclosure filled with billows of steam, and he found himself too preoccupied with not panicking to spare any more thought for artisanship.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Teleli on one side and Nick on the other, Heath pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, resting his forehead down. He focused fiercely on the presence of the two men on either side of him; the circle of people within the hut; and the knowledge that Hannah was just outside, waiting for him to come out of the steaming, suffocating darkness.

 _I'm here, they're here, I'm here,_ he chanted in his head, in time to Husu's soft drumming and song. He heard Nick grunt in surprise at the intensity of the darkness and heat. Teleli, he sensed, was relaxed, breathing easily with an internal rhythm. He could hear the sounds of the others in the circle as they reacted and adjusted to the rising temperature and subsequent billows of steam. No one appeared to be suffocating, however, so Heath figured he must not be suffocating either. This logic gave him a thin toehold toward calming himself.

Eyes closed, he focused on slowing his breathing, and proving to himself that there _was_ usable air in the clouds of steam filling the hut. Beside him, Heath sensed that Nick was doing much the same thing. This gave him another toehold.

Thoughts of Nick led him to the admission that he, Heath, was just too plain-old- _stubborn_ to quit, anyway, and especially in front of his brothers. Or in front of Teleli – or Jed – or Audra, for that matter -

 _Audra -?_

Audra was _singing_. She was singing, right along with Husu, and Hekeke, and Istu; with Notaku and all three Ghost Dancers; and Haja outside, and Hannah. More voices joined in, and drumming, as all around them they called up the energy for the ceremony and the healing.

Heath remembered his own mind going to pieces in their mountain shelter, as Teleli sang and swayed by the fire. He remembered the demons that came and went in wave after wave; blackness, helplessness, and nightmarish suffocation stormed into his tattered mind like an invading army. He had no way to stop it, and no way to know what torment would come next. Heath could think of few things that terrified him more than the prospect of going back to - _to that_.

Teleli's chanting had helped him find his way back, even in that dire wintry place, when it was just the two of them: exhausted, injured fugitives. _How much more energy is there here,_ Teleli had reassured him, _with the whole village around us calling up gratitude and protective spirits?_

 _Let's be honest,_ Heath admonished himself _. You are in a black, overheated, suffocating box. Seems likely you will lose your mind here – completely, or maybe just partly. Why wouldn't you?_

 _I'm hoping I don't, but if I do, I couldn't be in better company -_

He remembered Teleli's words then.

 _I can tell you, as one who knows: trying to close everything out leads to no place you wish to be. It wastes time and energy you could have given to something meaningful. It will not keep the memories away, and in the end all you will have done is locked yourself in a box of your own making._

 _OK. **OK** , Teleli, point made. I get it. _

He began to relax, and felt the steam and sweat dripping from his face and running down his back. He reached over to squeeze Nick's shoulder briefly, knowing he needed that contact, and got a relieved, _I'm OK_ pat on the hand in response. Husu continued to sing in a low voice and periodically added water to the stones. Drumming and chanting continued, within and without.

It was dark, dark, dark -

 _\- and my sister is singing. Audra is singing. The sun is rising, and the circle turns as it should._


	133. Chapter 132 - Darkling

_I do not ask the weary worm  
To give me back each buried grace  
Of glistening eyes or trailing tresses.  
I only feel that she is here,  
And that we meet, and that we part;  
And that I drink within mine ear,  
And that I clasp around my heart  
Her sweet still voice and soft caresses._

 _Not in the waking thought by day,  
Nor in the sightless dream by night,  
Do the mild tones and glances play  
Of her who was my cradle's light!  
But in some twilight of calm weather  
She glides by fancy dimly wrought,  
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,  
With all the quiet of a thought  
And all the passion of a dream  
Link'd in a golden spell together._

 _Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802–1839) "Mater Desiderata"_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, January 11, 1875_**

 _Teleli was right. He didn't lie about any of it._

Heath could acknowledge that fact with gratitude, later on, when his head was clear enough to think back on the experience. Teleli, in his direct, honest manner, had given Heath an idea of what to expect during the roughly four-hour sweat lodge ritual. Moreover, Heath had around him – both within the hut and outside – a gathering of love and trust that made him feel blessed and wealthy beyond measure.

He would not have made it through otherwise, he was certain of that.

The first "door", as Teleli had said, allowed them to acclimate to the steam and the darkness, so they could then focus on their intention for the ceremony.

 _That came a whole lot easier to some,_ Heath thought wryly. _Audra was singing while I was still fighting not to scramble out of there and run away._

Stubborn, competitive pride: Heath had that, for sure. It helped him get past his initial reaction to the sweat lodge, and while it was not exactly "spiritual", he found he welcomed that push like an old friend who had been gone for too long.

 _It surely helped me drag my lame body and my skittish mind up to the top of this hill in the first place. Sometimes just showing up is half the battle –_

"All my mothers. All my fathers," Husu called, and with those words, Hannah threw open the flap, and the first round concluded.

They all blinked and variously sighed, groaned, or laughed softly as light and cool air washed into the hut. Audra ran her hands over her face, and wrinkled her nose at Nick, who was grinning in amusement at her lank, steam-dripping hair. Heath drank in sight as hungrily as he did the cooling air.

Hannah studied him as she leaned in the doorway to hand Husu a fresh container of water; Heath returned her gaze with gratitude for her presence, and she seemed reassured by what she saw in him.

Husu thanked her. His eyes followed Hannah and stayed on her as she withdrew and waited just outside the open flap. It was his task now to pass around scoops of water before the second "door", but instead he sat motionless, the ladle in his hand, seemingly lost in the moment.

Heath looked at Husu, and at Hannah, just outside. Teleli's head came up, as he too sensed Husu's shift of focus. A gust of wind carried the scent and heat of the wood fire into the hut. Heath saw Husu gasp and flinch, very slightly – and then the memory stormed into his own mind and left him blind.

 _"Me'weh, Me'weh!"_

 _He could feel Husu's small, frantic hands shaking him, begging him to wake up. Smoke – heat – fire - no air to breathe – and no thought but the need to get that little boy out of this burning place. No sight, and no more time. Heath could see nothing but roaring, lethal darkness, but he could hear Husu crying in terror. He reached out toward that sound of fear, and pulled the child to him, holding him close as he struggled toward the door._

 _"Hannah! Hannah – we're here –"_

Heath blinked, sucked in a deep breath, and passed a hand over his eyes, the return of sight almost as jarring as the sudden blindness had been. He remembered Hannah pulling them to safety; he could feel the little boy's body go limp against him as he tried to shield him from the flames; he had run his blind hands over Husu, weeping with relief to feel his pounding heart and his warm grasping fingers on his sleeve.

For a moment, in the dim light, Heath thought it was the child-Husu that he saw across from him, impossible as that was. The image faded, resolving into the young man he had come to know. Like Teleli, Husu was lean and wiry, his straight black hair long and unbound. His features, Heath noticed, were more like Haja's: round and youthful, expressive of his alert intelligence and gentle humor.

Their eyes met, and Heath was certain Husu was looking at the lost, wounded ten-year-old boy he had refused to abandon. Heath could see the ebb of the memory as it receded from the younger man, to be replaced by worry at having been deflected from his ceremonial responsibilities. He met Husu's anxious look with a smile of thanks and kinship, and nodded encouragingly. Husu's expression cleared; he sat up straighter, drew a deep breath, and returned Heath's smile. Then, with a quick glance at Teleli for additional reassurance, he turned back to his task.

Ladles of cool water were passed around and gratefully accepted, both as drink and poured over the head. There was some quiet talk and fidgeting, which settled into expectant silence as Husu called for the next four ancestors to be brought in. These he welcomed and honored as before, and then sprinkled sage over the hot stones. As the scent filled the hut, Husu sang a prayer invoking the Spirit of the South, the direction of warmth and love and the strength that comes from being guided by one's heart.

 _Spirit keeper of the south, Wolf, be with us._  
 _Help us to remember to feel compassion for all people, for ourselves, and for all the Earth and her creatures._  
 _Help us to remember to walk our path with joy, and know that it is right to love. Help us find the courage to keep an open heart, knowing this will also open us to pain._

 _All my mothers. All my fathers._

Husu raised the ladle and nodded to Hannah. Darkness fell, and steam billowed, the heat rising rapidly from the stones as the water hissed into sage-scented vapor. Heath curled once again over his knees, unable to suppress completely a sound of distress. The blackness seemed to bombard all his senses with intensity; he could smell it and taste it; he could feel it wrapping around his body and filling his lungs; it moved before his eyes like a living thing. He thought he felt Nick's arm around his shoulder, but it seemed very far away.

"Oh, God -" he breathed, faintly, as a now-familiar vertigo pulled him in and swept him away.

 _Can you hold on to yourself, Me'weh?_

He found himself in another memory.

He was sixteen, coming home for the first time after the war. His few months working for the Baum's had brought some health back to his appearance. More important, those months had given him some good experiences to put up as a flimsy barrier between himself and the War. He rode home to Strawberry with a refurbished sewing machine on his back as a gift for his family, grimly intending to show them nothing of what he had seen, done, or experienced.

Heath had missed his family terribly. His love and joy in them was genuine, but the boy with the sewing machine felt to him like a pretense. He was a costume, meant to conceal his not-dead self, who had no business being in any family's home: that creature was broken, contaminated, and toxic. The shame and disappointment of his dishonorable discharge was, ironically, easy to confess to his family. It was a painful misfortune, true, but it shrank in significance compared to the catastrophe of everything Heath did not want them to know.

It was not just Carterson he wished to keep from them. Heath had left his family, against their wishes, as a foolishly optimistic thirteen-year-old stable boy, believing the promises of a smooth-talking Cavalry officer. He had returned to them as something…something _else_. He was no longer a child, but he was barely a man; he was no longer a stable boy, but he had become a killer. There were some moments – those bad moments, when his spirit was down and crawling in the dirt – when he felt no longer exactly human, and wondered if all that was left of him was feed for a monster.

Heath could not bear to show them this, what had become of the boy they loved.

His foolishness had caused him to lose what little childhood he had had left. He had killed more men than years he had lived; after Chickamauga, he had stopped counting. Carterson, it seemed, had sealed his fate. Linceul had taken that boy soldier and shattered him; even dead, he had insinuated himself like a poisonous choking vine around Heath's spirit.

Heath reined in his horse at the verge of the forest, his eyes on the small cabin. No one was outside, but a tendril of smoke wound upward from the chimney. Already, one part of his mind was noting repairs to be done; he yearned to sprint down to the cabin, burst in the door, and feel their arms around him. He leaned forward in the saddle. He hesitated. He was not sure. He was not ready. The costume might slip -

 _They trained you to kill, boy. You do that well, at least_. _Not much else you're useful for, is there._

 _Not anymore._

 _Except to be mine, Yankee boy_. _You can always be mine._

Nauseated, his head still on his knees, Heath moaned softly. His teeth were clenched; he was shaking, tears flowing into the sweat on his face.

Beside him, Nick wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and leaned his head close. Under the sound of the drums and soft singing, he murmured, hoping Heath could – would – hear him.

 _Love can guide your hand and direct your path; it will bring you clear vision,_ Haja had said to him.

"Heath," he whispered. "Come home, boy. Come home. I need you. Your family needs you. We are your circle. We balance – we heal each other, like Haja said."

There seemed to be no response. Nick fell silent, feeling as though his words were melting away in the heat and offering no comfort.

 _Clear vision._

 _Love brings clear vision. It also brings pain - and frustration - and impatience. If I didn't love this man, none of this would hurt so much._

" _Dammit_ , Heath. I know you want to come home. How about you show yourself some of the same kindness and patience you hand out so freely to everyone and everything else: like that crazy horse who almost got you killed; or me, the stupid, stubborn brother who almost got you killed?

"How about some compassion for yourself, Heath? _Come home_. Don't leave that stubborn, beat-up, soldier boy standing out there in the cold. He's part of you. He's needed. He's loved. No matter whatever."

* * *

Deep in the memory, Heath was about to back up his horse and retreat from the cabin. Back then, in the summer of '65, he had haunted the woods around the cabin for over a week, approaching and retreating, until he finally could overcome his reluctance and make himself known.

Now, though, he felt something change. He could feel the heat of the sweat lodge, heard the drumming, and closer by, a low quiet voice calling to him –

The cabin was still there, but now it was empty and silent. He was in a place of no time. He rode forward, and dismounted by the door. He felt suddenly weak and off-balance. Steadying himself with a hand on the porch rail, he caught his reflection in a window of the darkened cabin. He stared in shock at the cadaverous, battered, haunted boy who looked back at him. Heath staggered back a step, wanting to flee.

 _I can't let them see me – not like this._

He turned back to his horse.

It was Nox.

It was Nox, as she had been.

 _Worse, even,_ he thought, unable to keep himself from assessing her condition, even though he knew he was sunk in some kind of crazy vision. _Worse…_

She was emaciated. Every rib and spine was visible, drawing his eye to her harsh, shallow, panting breath. Her mane was matted and her black coat was dull and crisscrossed with scars and weeping, open wounds. She trembled as if she were terrified – or about to collapse. She stared at Heath with a look of despair. The whites of her hollow, frightened eyes were yellowed and bloodshot.

"Nox…?" he said softly, reaching out a hand to her.

She flinched away from him. That movement alone caused her to stagger and nearly fall. She cried out in pain and backed away.

"Nox, it's OK – don't run –"

She staggered again, and went down. Heath could hear the deep grunt of the air that escaped her, as her body hit the ground. The sound brought to him a vivid memory of Nox trumpeting her cry up the mountainside when Ilsa's baby was born. Even crazed and half-dead as he had been at that time, still that cry had filled him with awe.

Heath tried to go to her now, but found he could barely walk himself. He sank to the ground. He was a skeleton – a broken skeleton – weak, sick, and terrified in his soul. He crawled to her head and reached out a shaking hand to stroke the white blaze on her face. She did not pull away this time. She was not able to. She just stared at him. She questioned him, and demanded an answer. He could see the brightening sky, and his own gaunt, ghost-like face, reflected in her open eyes. She questioned him, even after she took her last labored breath, and died.

"Nox…?"

He felt his heart breaking with an agony of loss that drained away the last of his strength. He could not rise. He lay down with his head on her chest; he listened to the silence therein and knew he was dying.

Still she questioned him.

 _Can you not honor yourself, Me'weh?_

There came another voice.

 _How about some compassion for yourself, Heath? Come home. Don't leave that stubborn, beat-up, soldier boy standing out there alone. He's part of you. He's needed. He's loved. No matter whatever._

With a huge effort, Heath turned to look back at the cabin. It seemed so far away.

 _Come home._

He pushed himself up, slowly, and took a few unsteady steps toward the porch.

 _This is crazy,_ he thought.

He got a battered, bony hand on the porch rail. The single step up to the porch looked like more than he could manage.

 _This is just in my head - a memory of something that never happened._ _A wish...a need. Not real -_

 _If wishes were horses, Yankee boy..._

 _That voice_...he sagged slightly against the porch rail, and had to fight to stay on his feet. _Just in my head..._

He looked at the lifeless black horse. Her glassy eyes stared at him, questioning. He turned back to look up at the cabin.

 _ _Not wishes._ _

He felt near collapse himself, as he drew breath to speak.

 _Not wishes. Hope._

"Mama -?" he called out, little more than a rasping croak. "Aunt Rachael?"

A light came up inside.

"Mama –? Rachael - I'm - I'm home -"

The door flew open. He felt their arms around him.

 _I've missed you so much._

"All my mothers. All my fathers."

Light poured in as Hannah threw open the flap. There was less talk and movement this time, as the meditation had been deeper for most, during the second round. Water was passed around.

Heath did not move when the flap was opened, nor did Nick, at first. Hannah regarded them both intently, but she appeared at ease. Jarrod found that reassuring, but watched them closely, nonetheless.

Heath had his knees pulled up and his eyes on the floor; Nick had an arm tight around him, and was speaking quietly by his ear. Heath appeared to Jarrod to be coming back from a long, long way away, a state of mind he had seen in this brother before. He was listening to Nick, though, that was clear. He was listening, and nodding, and now even smiling slightly. They both sat up a little straighter, and willingly drank and doused themselves with water when their turn came around.


	134. Chapter 133 - Tides

_There are places  
inside us  
that are never reached  
by articulated thought_

 _Our spirits  
Incorporeal  
ride upon the rhythms  
of breath  
and coursing blood  
the shifting mantle  
of a living earth_

 _We are lifted  
by tides  
of music  
and poetry  
the drumbeat  
and the chant  
flow these currents  
swirl dark eddies  
touched by  
no other means_

 _This is the language  
of the soul  
to rise like smoke  
of the ritual fire  
wherein  
all healing lies_

 _Veesl53, Poem for Translation, 6/27/19_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, January 11, 1875_**

The water break after the second round was longer than the first, marking the halfway point of the ritual. Outside the hut, drumming and singing continued. Heath shared a sweaty smile with his siblings across the circle, as they heard Silas join in with his strong, pleasant tenor. Inside, around the circle, the participants adjusted their positions, drank, and murmured quietly to each other.

Heath leaned his elbows on his knees and ran a hand over his wet face, glad for the intermission of light and cool air.

 _I need a minute, Lord have mercy._

He was back in the hut, as far as his perception of _where_ and _when_ was concerned. His mind and his spirit, however, were still fluid and time-loose, moving wavelike in response to the powerful emotions of the vision from which he had just emerged.

 _The third round is to the west…acceptance of change and death…the meditation here can go very, very deep._

 _That was what Teleli had said._

 _Very, very deep -? So what was that, just then, where I just was? That wasn't "deep"...? What – where am I gonna end up –_

He felt an irrational desire to sink his hands into the ground, as if that could help his mind feel more stable. He swallowed and looked sidelong at the Indian sitting close beside him.

Wrapped in his own visions and memories, Teleli felt Me'weh's attention and raised a questioning eyebrow.

At a loss for words, Heath anxiously searched the older man's face, wishing for guidance, or at least some reassurance of what might come next. He saw, instead, a tidal sea of grief and joy; he sensed a change in the ebb and flow behind his friend's eyes. Distantly, he thought he heard the deep voice of the ocean, and the answering whisper of rocks and sand. He drew breath to speak.

"What was your mother's name?" he heard himself say.

Teleli, surprised, did not answer immediately. He stared intently at Me'weh for a moment, then his expression eased, and he smiled sadly.

"Pol'neye. Her name describes a dove dragging her wing upon the ground to draw danger away from her nest."

"Pol'neye." Heath sounded out the name. "A dove dragging her wing." His brow furrowed in empathy as he studied Teleli. "Do you see her, in these – in – in your mind? In these dreams?"

Teleli nodded with a wondering expression. "Yes. This time, yes, I saw her."

"Not before?"

He frowned. "Not many times. For so many years, I could not even remember her without seeing her and my sister Taipa fall under the rancheros' bullets. I would hear her calling to me to run, and I would see her die, again, and again. I ran, and I ran. All I could remember was that I left them behind - that I left their bodies there in the hands of slavers. I could not grieve for them, or bless them onward, for a long time."

Me'weh was silent, listening closely.

"You, I think, understand something of this, Me'weh."

He nodded.

Teleli suddenly laughed softly and shook his head.

"You and I, Me'weh," he said wryly to the surprised cowboy. "You and I can be very stupid. Very stubborn, yes; smart, and even wise, in some things. But in others…" He laughed again. "Stupid. Slow learners."

He raised an eyebrow. "Guess I can't well argue with that."

"I saw her this time, for the first time in a long while. The lessons my mother brings, she has brought to me before. Forgive my father his weaknesses. Honor her memory by living a life of joy and honor and love. Be compassionate to myself.

"Do these sound familiar to you, Me'weh?"

"Slow learners." Nodding, he mirrored Teleli's sad smile. "Looks obvious from here. Not so much for myself."

"My mother - she went back for Taipa that night. Taipa was hurt, and fell behind as we fled. My mother was strong, and swift. She could have escaped with me, but she would not leave Taipa. I understand that, now, in my heart…when I was a child I was very angry with her for dying. Haja and Papati had a rough time with me. Often I felt I should have died with her and my sister, or instead of them. My father did not disagree. Haja would become very upset – with him, and with me. Many times she told me how much our mother loved me, and would have wanted me to survive."

"And do you believe it?"

"Not always," he admitted. "Sometimes."

"And sometimes not," Me'weh said, pursing his lips in thought. "There are times, I reckon, all you can do is _act_ like you believe it. Until the actual believing comes back around again."

Teleli laughed under his breath. "That is what got you up to the top of this hill, I think, Me'weh."

"May be right about that."

"Today, her presence was very strong. I could feel her hands on mine. I could feel her message to me taking deeper root in my spirit, and I am grateful."

His smile faded. He was acutely aware of Me'weh's strange eyes watching him steadily. His gaze moved around the circle, lingering fondly on several faces before coming to rest on the form of his beautiful wife. Her eyes held his, and in his yearning for her, he felt he himself might burst into flames.

Me'weh had followed his stare and nudged him. "Easy, fella. You're gonna set this whole little hut on fire."

Teleli glanced at him with a faint grin, and then turned back to his wife. Deliberately, he took a deep breath and let the tension leave him. His expression had become somber. He kept his eyes on Hekeke as he spoke, as though the sight of her could offer him balance as he traversed a deep and treacherous chasm.

"You are worried about this next round, how it will be."

Me'weh grew still and quiet beside him.

"I have had to learn and relearn these lessons many, _many_ times - and so will you, Me'weh. It took years for me to quiet the demons long enough just to _listen_ , or even be willing to try. It is a battle, every day, some days more than others. It is a struggle: first, to listen; then, to hear; next, to understand and remember - and then, maybe, to believe.

"Even belief does not end the struggle. Even when you believe that love and home exist for you, the demons will still come. They will make you question whether you can go on living inside your own mind. You will question the wisdom of those who love and care for you, even when your hope for yourself is beyond your sight.

"You know this. You are walking this path. It is hard to find the courage to keep listening, Me'weh, when you understand truly how far you have to travel to come home.

"My mother's spirit guided me to my own wisdom, as all such spirits do – as your mothers did in your vision, no?" He glanced again at Me'weh, and waved dismissively at his look of surprise. "Wisdom is not enough, sometimes. This door, of the west, goes deep, Me'weh, especially for one such as you. It may be that you will not even remember where you go. This door of the sweat leads to your own strength, and to the source of your courage.

"You are of the west, as Haja said. It takes deep courage to allow illusions to die; to _know_ death, and loss, and change; to look, in truth, at the wheel of creation, and yet walk forward with hope and love. You will go deep, Me'weh, but Grandmother Moon is with you, and we make this journey for strength together. You are not lost."

* * *

 _All my mothers. All my fathers._

Nick had overheard some of what Teleli had to say about the next round, or door, of the ritual. He did not like the look in his brother's eyes. It was as if he were listening to some far-off sound and watching for it to become visible.

 _What do I even mean by that?_ Nick berated himself. _Just pay attention. They're bringing in more stones, it's going to be hotter than blazes...and what does Teleli mean, telling Heath he may not even remember where he goes for this round? No wonder he looks spooked._

 _Not spooked – terrified. Maybe I should get him out of here._

"Heath."

"Hmm?"

"Drink some more water. You should be drinking and cooling yourself off."

"Thanks, Nick." Heath leaned lightly against Nick's shoulder and drank several ladles of water.

"Are you sure you want to stay inside for this next one? We could go outside -"

"Do I _want_ to?" Heath echoed with a skeptical laugh. " _Lord_ , no. That last round I was _gone,_ Nick, somewhere ten years ago that never even happened." He nodded at Nick's confused look. "Yeah. Exactly. But I'll tell you, big brother, even there, I could _still_ hear you ridin' herd on me." Heath poured the last of the ladle over his head and gave Nick a tired grin. "So I figure, with you here, these next two doors'll be OK.

"That is, so long as you don't bail out."

" _Me_? Bail out…?"

"That's what I thought. Drink some more water, Nick."

* * *

Strangely, to Nick, the second half of the ritual seemed to pass by quickly. The utter strangeness of the setting and the intermittent feelings of physical alarm had remitted somewhat. Now he found himself pulled into the flow of the moment: the rhythmic, living darkness; the waves and currents of song and dance and gratitude all around, cradling the steaming hut like a body wrapped around a beating heart; the pulse of life in his own body; the sound of his brother's steady, deep, far-away breath.

Husu sang the prayer to start the third door. Darkness fell, heat hissed and swelled, and this time, Heath slung an arm around one of Nick's legs and hung on as if for dear life.

And then - he was gone. Nick had no idea to where. All he could sense of Heath was strength with which he held on to him, and the slow inhale-exhale movement Nick could feel with the arm he had wrapped around his brother's broad shoulders.

At a loss as to what to say, Nick decided to talk to Heath nonetheless, and so he kept up a steady murmur for his ear alone. The words flowed from him as if he were gentling a skittish horse, their meaning irrelevant; his deep voice modulated in tune to the level of tension he could feel in Heath's body.

The third door ended, but Heath did not come back – not all the way, at least. He did not look distressed or ill. He drank the water Nick brought to his mouth and nodded something that might have been thanks – but he wasn't really _there_. Alarmed, Nick looked around for reassurance.

Teleli felt his skin, looked in his eyes, and checked his pulse and breathing.

"He is well, physically, I think," Teleli said. "He is still deep inside, though. The fourth door will help him come back up. This last door is to the north. Husu will pray for clarity and wisdom, and then we each pray silently for our own specific healing, and for our village. That will be a good time for him to come back up."

" _A good time_?" Nick whispered, looking with growing impatience over to Jarrod. "How about _now_? Wouldn't _now_ be a good time?"

Nick did not understand what all Teleli was talking about, and he was of a mind just to drag his silent brother outside and holler at him until he was back to normal.

 _You wanna see me ride herd on you, Heath, just you wait -_

To his surprise, Jarrod did not appear worried. He was watching Heath, but he looked - calm. He responded to Nick's question with a familiar, affectionate gesture.

 _Settle down._

Nick scowled. As he took a breath to retort, he felt Heath let go of his leg and drape his arm instead companionably around his neck. Surprised into silence, he looked down at his brother. Heath was still a long, long way away -

"Ain't thinkin' of quittin', are ya, big brother?"

\- but at least he had him in sight, this brother he missed, and he was grateful.

"Quittin'? Not on your life, boy."

* * *

"All my mothers! All my fathers!"

Hannah threw open the flap for the last time on Husu's signal, and one by one, they left the hut with those same words of thanks. They each ended the ceremony in states of mind that ranged from giddy euphoria to awed silence, but there was a reverence that enveloped them all as they each thanked Hannah and Haja, then meandered as a group down to the cold running river to wash.

Hekeke and Audra hurried off to a private bend of the creek, where Rivka and Ilsa waited for them with towels and clean clothes. In their own area, the men shucked their clothes; Istu helped Peter navigate into the water with an arm around his waist, and with various sounds of relief, they all fell gratefully into the ice-cold water.

Jarrod floated and gazed at the sky, marveling at both the feeling of clarity in his mind, and the fact that he was swimming in January and enjoying every minute of it. Floating next to him was Husu, also gazing at the sky. The young man seemed calm, but utterly sapped.

"Husu," he said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Not that I have much to compare that experience to, but you did an amazing thing back there. Thank you. And thank you for letting me be a part of it."

Husu rolled his head over to look at Jarrod. "You are welcome, Big Brother Coyote," he replied with a gentle smile. "You are always welcome."

"You must be exhausted."

Floating again on his back, Husu laughed tiredly up at the overhanging oaks. "Exhausted? I am too tired to be exhausted. I think someone is going to have to drag me out of the river, get me dressed, and then carry me up the hill."

* * *

Nick stuck close by Heath as they climbed down to the river, though they were both fairly steady on their feet. He studied his brother with a critical eye as they tossed their wet, muddy clothes up onto the rocks. Even after several days, and their session in the sweat lodge, Heath was still painted like a river. The colors had faded, but this only made the swirling pattern seem more a _part_ of him, like the stripes of a tiger.

 _Still way too skinny, you ask me, though of course no one's asking me. He's moving better today than he has been…I know I feel pretty loose myself after all that steam, probably that helps...He's looking more like himself…even as we were hiking down to this river, he was coming around…he's definitely more here than he was even a few minutes ago._

Feeling Nick's attention, Heath grinned at him and beckoned him toward the water.

"C'mon, Brother Bear! We got a party to get to."

Nick joined him in the river, deeply aware of how far they had come to reach this point, and deeply grateful that they were here, present, together.

* * *

Focused as he had been on Heath during the whole of the ritual, Nick could tell immediately the moment Heath was back in the here-and-now. It hadn't happened by the end of the ritual, or even as they left the hut.

Heath had circled around with the others. He murmured the proper words as he exited the low doorway, but he had remained otherwise silent, a distant look in his eyes. He knelt down to pay his respects to Haja, but Nick was sure: it wasn't until he turned to Hannah that it happened.

She reached out and laid her dark hand against his cheek.

"Heath, child."

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, then another. His head came up. His searching eyes focused on her face.

"Hannah?" Nick could barely hear him. Then stronger, "Hannah. Hannah, I'm here -"

"I see you." She opened her arms and held him tight. "I see you. And your Mama and Rachael, they see you…so blessed you're home, child. So blessed."


	135. Chapter 134 - Setting down Roots

_To be a champion is more than luck or speed._

 _Buffy Sainte-Marie, "Spirit Of The Wind"_

* * *

 ** _Sullivan's Creek, January 11, 1875_**

"Peter, you want to get this rigged up down here and try to walk up the hill with it, or wait until we get up there?"

"Down here," Peter waved the men over, beaming with anticipation. He sat back on the trunk of a fallen oak. His leg ended a few inches below his knee, in a stump covered by an irregular - but otherwise well healed - eschar. This limb Peter now guided into a deep, padded, and expertly woven tule basket Istu had made to fit snugly around the stump. Incorporated into the base of the basket was a wooden leg and foot, convex on the bottom to allow for a slightly rolling gait. The foot had been shaped to fit inside Peter's shoe, and was stabilized and secured from ankle to thigh by leather straps that looked very much like a bridle.

"Mercy me, that's a _fine_ -lookin' leg," Heath opined, as he shook out his clean shirt and prepared to pull it on.

Letting his pant leg fall back into place, Peter stood up, triumphant and unassisted, to a hearty round of applause from the group.

Heath felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

"I think that fella might be able to beat you up this hill now, old man," Jed commented, his tone teasing, even as he surreptitiously studied Heath for clues as to his well-being.

Heath rolled his eyes and turned to face him with a sigh of mild exasperation.

Jed grew serious. He ran a worried eye over Heath's river-painted torso and back up to his face.

"You OK, old man? You doin' alright?"

Heath regarded Jed fondly, then nodded, an affectionate smile barely curving his mouth.

Relieved, Jed nodded back. A moonlit image came to him: the weathered, soft-spoken fugitive he had tracked into Death Valley. Heath had appeared by the campfire that night as if he had emerged from the wind-carved ribs of the mountain itself, silent as the rising moon.

 _Worn down to the bone of who and what he is,_ Jed had thought at the time _. An ancient, storm-scarred tree growing where barely any green can survive._

He returned Heath's smile, pensively, as that memory led him to another, deeper idea.

 _It is not the battered, scarred shape that makes him different._

That felt true.

 _A tree like that gotta sink roots deep in the ground to hold on to life. Deep roots, to weather the storms and keep growing. Even go through Hell and come out t' other side. That's what matters. That's what makes him different._

On impulse, Jed wrapped his arms around Heath and hugged him. "I'm glad, old man. Really glad."

Surprised, but pleased, Heath returned the embrace. He turned to the sound of Jarrod and Nick approaching, one arm still around Jed's shoulders. Husu and Teleli joined them, both dressed in traditional deerskin clothes and wringing water from their long black hair.

"Hey, boys," Heath greeted them, suddenly acutely aware of the picture he and Jed presented to his – to _their_ – two older brothers.

"Now you look like a pair of mountain lions," Husu commented.

"Though one of you seems to have tangled with a bucket of blue paint," Jarrod agreed.

To Heath's eye, Jarrod seemed more at ease than he had been for months, and he was glad to see it. He watched as Jarrod stepped up to shake Jed's hand with a smile – then embrace him, quickly but with genuine warmth.

Turning to Heath, Jarrod studied him intently for a long moment before embracing him as well. "You OK?" he asked quietly in his ear. He pulled back to look in Heath's face, waiting until he got an affirmative response. He spoke then seriously, pitched low for just the two of them. "I couldn't tell where you went, back there, Heath…but it seemed – it seemed OK. That is, I knew it was hard – for you – I could feel that - but I wasn't _worried_ , if that makes sense...?"

"Yeah." Heath frowned faintly. "That last part - where I was, I don't even know how to describe it. I don't remember it all, and I don't - I don't like that. But Teleli said that might happen. He said some things might come back to me later, if I need them, or if I take the time to think it through -"

He looked away and fell silent, his brow furrowed. Jarrod could see the wave of apprehension tighten in his expression, until he seemed deliberately to let it go; deliberately, Heath took a breath, and brought his focus back to his brother's watchful presence.

"I always knew where _you_ were, Jarrod. Like a star to steer by. That helped." He tipped his head toward Nick. "And I had him to hold on to, solid as an anchor."

"An anchor, and a star to steer by. You planning to take up seafaring, Brother Heath?"

" _Seafaring_?" Heath shuddered, laughed, and shook his head. "Nope. Not me. Just a figure of speech."

Nick was standing back slightly to look Jed over, shaking his head with a bemused grin. "Deputy Marshal Jeremiah Brown. Another brother." He threw up his hands in a gesture of benevolent defeat and spoke to the sky. "Are you _kidding_ me? I feel like I just barely got a handle on this one here." He pointed at Heath, who grinned at him as he shrugged into his shirt.

Jed fidgeted a bit under Nick's attention. "Don't know nothin' for sure," he tried to say dismissively. "It don't really matter. And I don't want to trouble your Ma -"

Nick cut him off with a laugh. "You think she won't figure it out?"

"Jed!" came a musical, wild cry.

Jed turned just in time to field a flying blur of a brunette who had run down the hill and leapt full tilt into his arms.

"Rafaela!" he sang, rolling the "r" luxuriously. Jed spoke her name as if he were tasting ambrosia; he wrapped the petite girl in his arms and spun her with a laugh.

He barely had time to introduce his lovely fiancée before they were joined by the other women. They came into view around the bend in the riverbank: a laughing, celebratory group, full of color and energy.

Audra, wet-haired, flew from one brother to the next like a flower-scented gust of springtime wind, wrapping them all in her ambiance of love, curiosity, and enthusiasm. She was overflowing with feelings and words: the thrill of having her brothers all together again; of having a new brother; and of Husu's magical ceremony, just to name a few.

Her flow of words halted abruptly when she saw Nox, who had come down to the river to investigate. Audra stopped mid-sentence with a gasp of delight, and ran off to greet the horse she had not seen in weeks.

Ilsa watched her go with a knowing smile. "I feel like Audra and I are sisters," she confided to the sleeping infant girl tucked in a sling against her chest. "Nox connected us, and brought all our families together." She looked for Peter, who had been deliberately obscuring himself behind the other men. "Peter, isn't it amaz- -?"

Then she too went abruptly silent, as Peter stepped into view. Tears welled in her eyes, and a beatific smile lit her face as he walked toward her. "- amazing...?" she finished, in a whisper. Her hand trembled as she held it to her mouth. "Oh, Peter – my Peter…"

Peter dipped down before her in a courtier's bow worthy of Holland's royal palace. Straightening, he took her hand with a grin better suited to his common origins, and she answered with one of her own. He then gathered his wife and daughter in his arms; Ilsa's blonde hair fell down her back as she laughed up at him; and they waltzed beside the river to a tune only they could hear.

Grateful and deeply moved, Heath watched them dance. He then nearly cried himself, to see Hekeke and Teleli have their reunion. When Husu brought their two ecstatic children to run shouting into their weeping father's arms, Heath was crying tears of joy along with everyone else.

But…

 _Where is Rivka?_

Wondering when she would appear, Heath's eyes began to draw away from these miraculous scenes of reunion, to search among the oaks and along the banks of the river. There was no sign of her. He turned in place, scanning the forest all around. He walked to the river's edge, peering upstream and down. A few more minutes passed, and Heath was no longer wondering; he could think on nothing else but her absence.

No one else seemed to notice that she wasn't there. That seemed odd. It seemed, in fact, downright suspicious. Heath narrowed his eyes at Nick and Jarrod, who were enjoying the waltz and seemed otherwise studiously engaged in a debate with Jed, Rafaela, and Husu. Teleli was sitting on the ground with one arm around Hekeke, and the other around the two children; all four of them were engaged in an animated mix of conversation and storytelling. Ilsa and Peter waltzed, while Tikva, the baby named for hope, slept peacefully between them.

 _Where is Rivka?_

Heath had just made up his mind to say something when he was interrupted by boisterous singing and laughter. Sam now came striding through the trees, flanked by Avram and David, who were teaching him a Yiddish wedding song. They arrived at the riverbank like a trio of noisy, affectionate bears. There were greetings, hugs, and introductions, and the disappointed twins lamented the fact that Audra was nowhere in sight.

 _Good point. Where is Audra, anyway?_

Frowning in puzzlement, Heath turned again in a circle.

 _And where – where is -_

"Uncle Heath!" bellowed the twins.

Their jubilant battle cry cut through the fog of his distraction.

 _Uh oh._

Nowhere to retreat. Smiling, Heath spun to face them. The laughing boys fell upon him like a giant Pacific breaker.

Heath knew this trick, however. Had learned it, in fact, from these two boys. He just couldn't quite believe they had fallen for it again. He ducked under their onslaught; they rolled right over him, yelping in shock as they fell into the ice-cold river.

Jarrod, Nick, and Rafaela cheered in celebration. Husu groaned, and looked crestfallen at Jed, who was staring in disbelief at Heath standing dry and laughing on the riverbank.

Jarrod looked curiously at Rafaela. Her face had an elfish beauty Jarrod suspected would carry a youthful aspect for all of her days. Her dark eyes sparkled with humor and intelligence.

"I have to ask, young lady. How did you -?"

"I pay attention." She grinned at him as she turned to console her astonished fiancé. It crossed Jarrod's mind that Rafaela might be the one person who could keep track of – and keep up with – the mercurial young man whose cheek she was kissing just then.

"Oh well," Husu sighed in resignation. "We lost that gamble, Jed. Guess it is you and I who will have to carry all these dirty clothes back up the hill."

"Do not fear, young ones," Sam pronounced with great sympathy, clapping a big, heavy hand on each of their shoulders. "I will help you."

Nick just chuckled. "I am starting to learn not to bet against that boy, Jarrod. Though I'm sure he'll keep surprising me."


	136. Chapter 135 - Go Eat Lunch

_There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour. This also I saw, that it was from the hand of God._

 _Ecclesiastes 2_

* * *

 _ **Sullivan's Creek, January 11, 1875**_

"OK, boys, c'mon, wait, please -"

Heath was backing up, hands raised, laughing but pleading with the twins in earnest. They kept coming, nonetheless, intent on payback.

"C'mon, it's my birthday," he argued.

"No, it's not," said Avram.

"That was yesterday," agreed David.

"Fair enough – but I'm getting married, and –"

"You're already married," said David.

"Uncle Jarrod told us. And good thing too, because Papa is waiting to talk to you," Avram pronounced in ominous tones.

"And Mama," David added darkly.

Heath stumbled a bit with that reminder, and he swallowed anxiously. "There's a whole party up there, and Rivka in that beautiful dress," he said a bit desperately. "And yes, I have to talk to your parents, and I haven't seen Mother in over a month -" They moved in to grab him from either side. "Give me a break, please, boys, I'm begging you. I can't show up a muddy mess."

They loomed in, one on each arm. All Heath could do was give them his best pleading look and hope they weren't feeling too teenage-ornery that day. They regarded him narrowly, being cold, wet and muddy themselves. He decided he had better use the ace up his sleeve.

"Audra brought me this shirt. Picked it out herself so I could wear it to the party. I don't want to disappoint her -"

That did the trick. Avram and David looked at each other, nodded, and agreed to defer their revenge. They hugged him instead, with brilliant smiles. Heath sighed in relief. They still got him wet, but at least he hadn't been thrown back in the river.

"We miss you, Uncle Heath. Mama says we can still come stay with you this summer. We can't wait."

"Rivka says you are going to build a house. We've been reading about architecture all year, and we have all kinds of ideas. Avram can draw them really well -"

"Wait, _what_ …?"

"We'll have it all planned out by the time we come back. Papa said you would let us design the whole thing. He and Mama liked the idea so much they were laughing and talking about it all through dinner. Told us to be ready to get started as soon as we get here in June."

"Wait… _you_ two…? Design a _house_ …? _Our_ house...?"

"And build it, too, of course. It's going to be _great_."

"Of course -" Heath heard himself say, weakly. He turned his baffled eyes to Sam, who was trying not to laugh aloud.

"The rabbi and the doctor," he confided, "love you like a son, Heath Thomson. They are not, however, above wanting a bit of payback themselves." He winked and gave Heath a solid smack on the shoulder. "Right now, though, there is a celebration to attend."

"That is true," Teleli agreed as he joined them, with an encouraging smile for the twins. He, too, was struggling not to laugh. "A celebration. It is time to go." He gestured expansively, as if yielding the stage to Heath. "I think Me'weh can finally put his knowledge of our language to good use!"

Heath stammered, confused - and then threw up his hands in good-humored surrender. "Oh, I shoulda seen this coming…" he muttered to Teleli, who was grinning at him expectantly.

"Someone has to say it!" Husu appeared at Heath's other shoulder, smiling broadly. He turned to face the group and raised both hands. Heath put a hand over his eyes, blushing.

"'IW'I, 'IW'IN!" he cried.

"GO EAT LUNCH!" came the immediate, full-throated reply, as if it were a long-practiced ritual. Cheers and laughter followed, and they began the climb back up to the hilltop.

Heath hurried over to walk with Jarrod and Nick, who were still laughing.

" _Go eat lunch_. That is funny, Heath," Nick was saying, wiping his eyes.

"All right, all right. But where's Rivka? And where did Audra go?"

"No idea, Heath. Audra has been playing her cards very close. We will be as surprised as you, whatever she's up to."

* * *

They climbed up out of the shadowed groves of the riverbed into brilliant midday sunshine, blazing down on a hilltop alive with celebration. Several cook fires and eating areas had been set up, as well as areas marked off for games and for dancing. Everywhere they looked, something was happening. Most of their group dispersed to greet family and have a meal. Heath hesitated, his hands shoved nervously in his pockets.

"I suggest you go say hello to Mother first, Heath," Jarrod counselled, pointing to a small tent and chairs set up at the edge of the celebration. "She hasn't seen you since -"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Heath interrupted, suddenly anxious. The memory of the last time he had seen her was a terrible one.

 _You were a Barkley liability, boy, and getting rid of you was the least I could do for Tom._

He could feel the bite of that memory on his skin, yanking hard for his attention. "Yeah, I remember. Just gimme a second." He closed his eyes, took a breath. Tried to feel past the pain, guilt and rage of that moment. He saw a bright moon reflected and refracted in flowing water. The reflection danced, fragmented, and coalesced; it was turbulent and unstable, but that was an illusion, of course. Over his shoulder, the moon herself hung silent in the dark, always just – _herself_.

"Heath?" That was Nick.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. _Steady. Silent._ "Right. I'll go see Mother first."

Jarrod nodded. "Yes. Then the Levis. I'll go with you, if you want?"

Heath glanced at him gratefully. "Thanks, Jarrod. But I think I have to weather _that_ conversation on my own." He straightened up. "OK. Let's go."

Victoria stepped out of the tent, followed by John, who laid a thick woolen wrap around her shoulders against the winter chill. She smiled up at him, and then turned to take a seat in one of the camp chairs. She gasped, grabbing John's sleeve to draw his attention.

"Heath." Without a second thought, she ran to meet him. John shrugged into his coat and hurried to follow after.

 _Heath. He looks so worn, so thin, so haunted, still_ , she thought. His smile and the warmth in his eyes were freely given, though, and there was no hesitation in the arms he wrapped around her.

"Oh, Heath, I have missed you so much." She was crying, and he was comforting her as best he could.

"I missed you too, Mother," he murmured. "I am so sorry for everything I've put you through. I never wanted to hurt you -"

She pulled back, looked up into his sad, apologetic eyes, and held up one warning, maternal finger. He fell silent, watching her.

"I am certain that John has already had this conversation with you." Heath's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. "I am not going to demand or pressure you to come home. We are here to show our love and support, and celebrate with you and Rivka, and with this whole village. I will not hear apologies from you, do you understand me?" Speechless, he did his best to meet her eyes as she continued. "If, over the next few days, I find an instance for which I feel I need an apology, I promise to inform you. Otherwise, _**no**_." She hugged him again, fiercely, and now it was Heath who was holding back tears. "I am so glad you're back. I am so glad you're safe. I was so afraid we had lost you. So glad you found your way back to us."

"Thank you, Mother – John -" he said softly. "I appreciate you being here. It means more to me than I can say."

"We love you, son," John said simply. Victoria saw faint look of wonder crossed Heath's face at those words, and she squeezed his arm once more as she stepped back.

"We'd love to keep you here by us for the rest of the day, Heath, but -"

"I know. The Levis." He smiled bravely. Hesitated. "It'll be fine. I know it will be fine. I'm just a little nervous, is all." He swallowed and ran his damp palms over the front of his shirt. Then, schooling his face into a resolute expression, he headed over to another small tent, in front of which he could see Solomon and Hadassah engaged in an animated discussion with Husu and an older white man with a distinctly professorial appearance.

Heath was very curious as to the identity of the man and his business, but he was not to be satisfied on that account. The moment they saw Heath approaching, the Levis shooed Husu and the man away and turned to wait for their new son-in-law to arrive.


	137. Chapter 136 - Source

_The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service._

 _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

* * *

 _Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength._

 _Loving someone deeply gives you courage._

 _Lao Tzu_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, January 11, 1875  
_**

"Solomon," she interrupted her husband with a hand on his forearm. "Look."

He followed her gesture to see Heath parting from John and Victoria, and then crossing the campsite toward their tent.

"Heath. Thank God," he whispered. He turned back to their visitor. "Professor, we will have to talk more later on, as right now we must attend to an important family matter."

"Certainly, Rabbi, certainly, I look forward to it." He spoke in a pleasant, educated British accent. He rose, shaking the rabbi's hand, and offered Hadassah a more formal bow. "Doctor, Rabbi, thank you for your hospitality." He looked hopefully to Husu. "Young man, I know you also would like to join your family, but if you could spare me just a few more minutes of your time, I would greatly appreciate it. We could talk more extensively later, tomorrow perhaps?"

Husu nodded pleasantly as they walked away. Me'weh, he saw, leveled a curious stare at them as he approached. Husu shrugged, which told Me'weh nothing useful, and he earned a puzzled frown in response. Grinning, he gestured toward the Levis.

 _You have more important things to pay attention to, Me'weh.  
_

Hadassah stood, her hands clasped in front of her. "Solomon, let me go talk to him first? I can see from here how worried he is."

Her husband nodded gravely. "I will wait."

Hadassah walked out to meet him, feeling breathless with relief that they had reached this day and were here, finally, together. She had not seen Heath since September. That day, too, had been one of celebration in the wake of terrible violence; an interlude of peace and the love of family; a moment to reconcile past sorrows and look forward to the future.

That day, Heath had asked Rivka to be his wife, and had asked Solomon and Hadassah for their blessing. They had given it, freely and without reserve. He was already family, and Hadassah had been acutely aware that since the deaths of Leah and Rachael, no one other than Hannah had known and loved Heath as long as she and her family had.

Sadly, it had been just an interlude. Rivka, Heath, and his family were once again drawn into a battle for justice and simple survival.

Hadassah and her husband were deeply familiar with the course of events since that lovely September day in Carson City. They understood the violence, the conflicts, and the confluence of events that had converged on this village in the foothills; they understood the tangible threats all had faced.

It was the other war that concerned Hadassah now: that intangible, brutal struggle for sanity and soul to which Heath had very nearly been lost. Hadassah had gleaned a great deal from talking with Rivka and Teleli, and even Jarrod, but she needed to see for herself. She had been with Heath all through the nightmare of Carterson; after Linceul; and after Bentell; she had cared for him when he was broken and beaten so far away from himself, she had feared he would never come back.

She knew his strength and his resilience, as did Rivka, but they were physicians both, and they understood: even with the best of care, sometimes, the battle is lost. To practice their profession was to know defeat, intimately and often - and to go on nonetheless, doing what was best for those in their care.

Her brow furrowed with worry as she watched Heath approach. She prayed this healing ceremony had helped him. She had no specifics, but her intuition told her that Heath was continuing to contend with forces and experiences that were deeply unsettling to him, and she was grateful that he had people around him who understood.

She had come to the opinion that this Miwok village was perhaps the best place Heath could be, for now. As with the Paiute, Hadassah perceived in the Miwok a rooted, honest acceptance of the ways violence and fear can wound one's soul; their approach to healing such a wounded person was similarly mindful and organic. One evening over tea, while Solomon and Sam were off with the boys clearing land for the new schoolhouse, she and Haja had talked at length about it. So often, among White people, it seemed to Hadassah that these unseen wounds were ignored or denied, as if such grievous injuries to the mind would just disappear.

 _And what of Heath?  
_

She thought back to what Rivka had shared with her, as they prepared to climb this hill in the predawn darkness.

 _"Mama, he is – we are - still finding our way. He has been so nearly lost, so broken – he has fought his way back from so, so far away. You understand this, better than anyone."_

Hadassah's heart ached with worry. This young man would be a husband to her daughter, and father to the baby she carried.

 _I **do** understand what this is, and where he has been, better than anyone. And because of that, now, I must look at him with absolute honesty, painful as that might be. _

_God, please, I beg you. Help him be the husband and father I know he can be - that he wants to be. Help him be ready..and if he is not…what will I do?_

 _Rivka believes he is ready,_ Hadassah thought.

Teleli, too, had said as much, in his own way, when he came to them in San Diego. Hadassah was glad Teleli had been with Heath these last several days as they prepared for the sweat lodge. She expected Heath would need guidance and some explanation of what might happen. Hadassah believed – based on what she knew of Heath, and what she knew of similar purification rituals among the Paiute – that the rounds in the sweat lodge had been a very, very different experience for him and Teleli than it had been for the other participants. She would not be surprised to hear it had gone for Heath well beyond the deep meditation and prayer most experienced: well beyond, and into the realm of visions.

Heath had seen her now, coming out to meet him. He paused, his eyes moving from her to Solomon, seated by the tent; then he resumed walking, his shoulders tense, his brow creased with worry.

 _Walking_. _No, he is limping._ Hadassah took advantage of the distance to study him dispassionately, her eye as studious and professional as Heath's own with equestrian stock. He was washed and clean-shaven. His blonde hair was trimmed short, but was still unusually sun-bleached for this time of year. Clean clothes, no gun, no hat, and no coat. Very thin – she estimated he had only regained five or ten pounds since she had last seen him, when he was still an inmate in Nevada. He had had that limp then, too, she remembered, though now it seemed worse, and she wondered why. _Other injuries in the interim, perhaps, or pain and restriction of movement from scars of old wounds?_

She brought her eyes back up to his face, now, as he drew near. He slowed, and then stopped, as he met her eyes; he stood tense as a humming bowstring, caught between uncertainty, and the desire to go to her. Tears welled in her eyes. She could see him so clearly, that fifteen-year-old boy who had put his trust in her, and who had brought her family to safety at the price of his own freedom. She could see the full-grown, handsome cowboy her twin sons adored absolutely; who was always welcome in their home; who always found some way to help them out; who was so clearly in love with their daughter; the same cowboy Hadassah discovered one early morning on their back porch, unconscious, with a back full of carpet tacks and nail heads.

"Lincoln...Coun'y. Jus' a blood feud..." he had groaned, when they lifted him to bring him into the house. "I's such a fool…shoulda never…" Before he passed out, he had pressed a fold of money into her hand with a mumbled plea to send it to Hannah.

 _Always, his instinct is to protect, to help, to do the right thing, to care for his loved ones. I have seen him as shattered and crushed as he – or any man – could be, but **that** instinct has never faltered. _

Heath was still watching her in a way that made her think of a wild mustang about to bolt. Lost in thought and worry as she had been, she realized she must have been staring at him with an expression that was neither welcoming nor reassuring. She could feel the tension in her face and posture. She did her best to let that go, and consciously, deliberately, met his eyes with all the love she held for him. She opened her arms and called his name; he came to her like an arrow in flight.

* * *

Heath had been on edge from the moment he had emerged into the festive air of the hilltop. He was able to relax somewhat, once the family assured him that Rivka and Audra's absence was not a cause for alarm.

The tension ratcheted up to a painful knot in his chest, however, when he realized Hadassah was coming out to speak to him alone. His mouth went dry, and his heart began to feel like a boxed-in animal, banging mindlessly on the walls to get out. Crawling up on the back of _that_ feeling was a sour, angry impatience: with himself, the mess he had made of things, and especially his goddamned all-over spooked state of mind.

 _Am I ever going to feel like I'm standing on solid ground again? I thought all this ritual was supposed to fix this._

Heath had not felt this particular type of anger for some time, he realized, though he had seen hints of it over the past few days. It had been a frequent visitor a few months ago, when he was still trying to manage life-as-usual on the ranch.

 _That was before my mind went completely to pieces. Guess I been too busted up in my head and my body since then to get ornery about anything. Maybe I should see this as a sign of improvement._

He was sneering sarcastically at himself, and he knew it. That was not helping. He told himself to shut up, calm down, and keep walking. An image rose in his mind: the moon reflected, following along with him as he moved along the water's edge.

 _Settle yourself, for God's sake. What in hell are you afraid of? This is Hadassah. You love her like she was your own mother. You're acting like you're going up in front of a firing squad._

He was acutely aware of Hadassah's intense regard; he imagined he could feel the weight of her diagnostic gaze settling over him, and then he understood. She had known him; had **_seen_** him; had cared for him when _not-dead_ seemed to be all that was left of him.

He was not facing her as his mother-in-law. No. This was triage. This was Hadassah the Physician: the one who _knew_ , as intimately as Linceul himself, the not-dead creature he had been. She would pass judgement on his prognosis; she held the key to his quarantine. She would recognize what was in him, and would decide whether he could be allowed to pass.

 _Firing squad._

The reflected moon shivered and broke apart into countless shimmering wavelets. The weight of the history between them felt heavy enough to crush him into the ground, and a firing squad began to seem a merciful option.

 ** _Stop_** _it,_ he thought desperately. _This is Hadassah._

Fragmented light danced on dark, moving water.

 _That is not the Moon, in the water. The Moon is there, over your shoulder._

That thought brought him to a halt, and he frowned, wondering where it had come from – and what it meant. It jostled him out of his panic-driven rumination, though, so he could see the shape of his fear.

She was a witness. She loomed now in his imagination as judge and gatekeeper, poised to strike down any illusions he might have left, and send him into exile.

She was a mirror, of course. It was his own judgement he feared. He was still learning to wrangle that particular demon. _Maybe I'll even have it saddle-broke someday,_ he thought, feeling suddenly drained. He ran a hand over his face.

 _Back up. Find your balance._

 _This door leads to your own strength,_ Teleli had said, _to the source of your courage._

The water became still and silent; fathomless, it cradled the endless depth of the night sky, and the clear curving shape of the moon. Heath knew his heart. He honored this woman and her family, and he loved her daughter more than life itself. He could trust that, as a place to start. He could see that trust reflected in her face, and her arms offered him a welcome.


	138. Chapter 137 - The Best-Laid Plans

_You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,  
_ _And weary winter coming fast,  
_ _And cozy here, beneath the blast,  
_ _You thought to dwell,  
_ _Till crash! the cruel plough passed  
_ _Out through your cell.  
_

 _That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,  
_ _Has cost you many a weary nibble!  
_ _Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,  
_ _Without house or holding,  
_ _To endure the winter's sleety dribble,  
_ _And hoar-frost cold.  
_

 _But little Mouse, you are not alone,  
_ _In proving foresight may be vain:  
_ _The best laid schemes of mice and men  
_ _Go often awry,  
_ _And leave us nothing but grief and pain,  
_ _For promised joy!  
_

 _Still you are blessed, compared with me!  
_ _The present only touches you:  
_ _But oh! I backward cast my eye,  
_ _On prospects dreary!  
_ _And forward, though I cannot see,  
_ _I guess and fear!  
_

 _Robert Burns, "To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough"_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Village of Sutamasina, January 11, 1875_  
**

She smiled up at him, and to Heath she seemed to glow in the clear winter sunshine. He could see how she had aged over the years since Carterson, but he had always thought her beautiful. Her complexion, naturally dark, bore the deeper hue of life in the southwestern sun; the lines of her face seemed only to complement the compassion and intelligence that animated her features. The long, dark hair she used to wear in a thick braid was now streaked with silver. She had twisted it into a neat chignon more suited to a mature, settled, professional woman. Still, he would always hold as precious his memory of her during that dark and terrible time underground: a woman caring for her children and dying soldiers; steady as the stars arcing through the night sky; brave, compassionate, and practical.

He stood before her now, completely at a loss for words. The love and welcome in her expression filled him with relief. He had known this reunion might be tough, but his nerves were still jangling, both from the sudden intensity of what he had felt upon seeing her, as well as its sudden resolution.

"Ma'am, I – um – I just want to say -"

 _Let the water flow, as it will; let it be calm and clear, and so will your sight be clear.  
_

 _Trust your heart._

He stopped with a puzzled frown.

 _Is that something Teleli said? Where have I heard that?  
_

He met her eyes. _Trust my heart. Trust myself._ The words settled him, and he certainly welcomed that. He tried again.

"I have no idea what to say, or where to start. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you are here. I'm so -"

She held up a hand to interrupt. "No apologies."

He exhaled, acquiescing without argument. "That's just what Mother said."

"She is a smart woman." She nodded once, as though she had come to a decision, and her tone became businesslike. "I am going to take the liberty of speaking for both my husband and myself, in order to make something clear, right here and now."

He straightened and listened gravely, his eyes on her face.

"I will admit – for both of us – that this was not the transition into marriage and parenthood that we had envisioned for our daughter. Or for our son-in-law, whom we dearly love," she added warmly. "We imagined an orderly, tasteful, and planned ceremony in the autumn, which is a lovely time of year in this part of the state. We anticipated some confusion or even controversy around the introduction of Jewish ceremony and a Jewish household into the Barkley world, but we were certain that would be worked out in time. We pictured you and our daughter settling into a home, once she finished her training; you, building up a ranch of your own, and Rivka, setting up her practice as a physician; and then, of course, grandchildren.

"Meanwhile, our sons are getting older. They appear to be accelerating toward higher education just as rapidly as did their sister, which means they should be entering university in another year and a half. They have their hearts set on the University of California, in Berkeley, which already is building a reputation for the study of architecture. I see you have heard about their interests in that direction," she commented, seeing his eyes widen at the reminder. "Interest, they have." She shrugged. "Talent? That remains to be seen." With an effort, she maintained her earnest demeanor and kept herself from laughing.

"So, given all that – college, grandchildren, etc. – Solomon and I have been giving serious thought to accepting a rabbinical position he has been offered by Congregation B'nai Israel in Sacramento. But that is neither here nor there," she said briskly, not for a moment missing the glazed look of alarm that was overtaking Heath's expression. She had no doubt he was comparing – unfavorably - the arc his own life had followed over recent months, with the orderly, civilized family portrait she had just painted. He would see that he had brought trouble, disappointment, and danger to his friends and family. While that was partially true, it was only one facet of the story; still, she knew it would be difficult for him to shrink down that feeling of guilt and remorse to its proper size and set it aside.

"Heath," she said, gently, drawing his pained eyes back to her and the present moment. "The best-laid plans of mice and men…so often go awry." She took his hands and studied them thoughtfully. "I do not tend to agree with the poet who wrote those words, though, that this brings us only grief and pain. They are just plans, after all. Life is what _actually_ happens. Surprising or painful as it can be at times, life is where we create love; it is where we find beauty, and hope, and all manner of unexpected things."

"Unexpected," he echoed, his gaze gone inward and distant again.

"Who could have planned this, Heath?" She let go of his hands and gestured broadly. "Look around us. This village survives. Ilsa and her family are reunited. Look at joyful Sam, or Victoria and John. All around us are miracles – unplanned, challenging, difficult miracles, sometimes – but miracles nonetheless. I – and I speak for Solomon, as well – we feel utterly blessed to be here right now, in this place, and to celebrate with you and Rivka."

It eased her mind to see Heath begin to relax – and, perhaps, begin to let go of the armored contrition he had borne into this conversation.

There was one more thing she wanted him to hear, however, before they moved on.

"You could go back to the ranch right now and tough it out, Heath."

He looked up, surprised at what seemed a sudden change of topic.

"You could pick up where you left off. And this time, you might succeed in shoving it all out of sight." She did not have to elaborate on what she meant by _it_. "For a while, anyway," she amended gravely.

He was listening carefully now, and she could feel the weight of his guarded vigilance as she continued.

"You know, over the years, I have kept in contact with a few of the Paiute and Chemehuevi shamans I met travelling through the southern desert. I have learned about – and participated in - many of their healing rituals. There are similarities to the Miwok ceremonies. Teleli and I have talked about it, and Haja."

She could see his discomfort rising with this subject. "There is much history between you and me, Heath," she went on. She was gentle, and yet unrelenting. "I know where you have been. With the possible exception of Teleli, I understand better than anyone the forces with which you are contending. And - so - I think I understand why I make you uncomfortable. No, do not argue. Clearly, I do, and it makes perfect sense. That will pass. I mention this now only to explain why I believe it is a blessing that you and Rivka might stay in Sutamasina for a few months."

She paused to consider her words. "I know Rivka has reasons to be here. I know you want to be by her side. But for you…for you, here, I believe you could take these gains for which you have fought so hard and build on them. You could take some time to keep learning, instead of just struggling to box it all up again. Do you understand what I mean?"

She watched his face, glad to see he was not shutting out her message, despite his evident desire to box it all up with a hammer and nails and bury it underground. She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten; heard his breath become deliberate and slow. She continued to speak her piece, nonetheless. "The people of this village understand the nature of the path you follow, and its challenges, even without knowing the specifics. They accept the dark and the light of it; it is part of their worldview. They will not demand of you that it be hidden."

 _Let it flow, as it will._ "I can't disagree with you." His voice was low and rough, but not angry. "Wish I could, but…" He drew in another breath through his nose, exhaled, and shook his head. "Even if we weren't staying for the hospital, I don't – I don't reckon I could go home just yet. I know it – I _have_ known it - I just don't like to admit it. Teleli agrees with you. I'm guessing you two agreed on a lot of things."

She laughed. "Not everything, believe me. He has his opinions, and I have mine – and he was at times not such an easy 'apprentice' assisting me in my formulary." She shared this with fond exasperation. "He could be quite frustrating. Still, I am so glad you sent him and Sam to us. Another unplanned blessing, no?"

He gave her a bemused smile. " _ **You**_ are a blessing, ma'am."

Her eyes twinkled. "I am blessed that my daughter chose a man who knows how to talk to his mother-in-law." She kissed his cheek. "Now let's see you sweet-talk the Rabbi."

Heath nodded resolutely, lifted his chin, and smoothed the front of his shirt with the palms of his hands. Solomon, meanwhile, had risen to his feet. He stood waiting in front of their tent, a tall, slim silhouette, waiting for him.

"Sweet talk the Rabbi," he mused, keeping his eyes on Solomon. He shook his head skeptically, though she could see a bit of humor in his glance. "I don't know, Doc. Ain't never done it before. Don't reckon now's the time to try something new."

She laughed softly. "Go on, _motek_. Go as yourself, the young man he loves. He has been waiting. Sometimes I think he and the boys miss you more than they do Rivka." She pushed him gently. "Go. You can confess to him all the Jewish learning you have not done since September, and he has a confessional story of his own to share with you that I think will ease your mind."

She sighed and wiped her eyes as she watched him straighten his shoulders and walk to the tent. The limp was less pronounced now, and she suspected he was making a conscious effort in that regard. She could hear him address Solomon with respectful politeness as he approached, calling him "Sir" and offering a handshake. Her husband brushed such formality aside in his impatience; he took the offered hand and used it first to pull Heath into a welcoming embrace, and then steer the surprised young man to sit beside him in one of the camp chairs.

 _So young,_ she thought. _So young, and yet so ancient._ She saw their heads bent together, already deep in conversation. She smiled and turned away, feeling satisfied and peaceful. Gazing out over the celebratory scene of the hilltop camp, she spotted the group she had come to call (in her mind) "the wedding party"; they were beginning to gather, and would be moving in her direction. She realized she was going to have to let Solomon know it would soon be time to stop talking.

 _And Husu, as well. Where is he?  
_

Husu most certainly had to be present for the wedding party, and now it seemed she was going to have to rescue him from the professor. Her visual search located the two talking by one of the cook fires. Even from a distance, she could see Husu was exhausted from the hours of ritual, and had been unable to extricate himself from the anthropologist's eager interview. Professor McNutt appeared oblivious to Husu's condition, so happily focused was he on notating the young man's responses. He clearly felt he had discovered in Husu the field anthropologist's Holy Grail: a willing and articulate informant, fluent and insightful in both his obscure native culture, and in the larger world of the White Man.

 _He might have traveled here all the way from San Francisco to "document the phenomenon that is Sutamasina" and write the "first, definitive tome concerning the language and social organization of the Sierra Miwok"_ , she thought, _but that masterpiece is just going to have to wait. Poor Husu has not eaten or rested in over twenty-four hours. I cannot imagine that what he is telling this professor is making much sense at this point._

She marched over and informed Professor McNutt that his data-gathering was done for the day. She then retrieved Husu and sent him off to rejoin the celebration. McNutt, for his part, accepted her intervention graciously, and was soon immersed in the transcription and review of his notes.

Hadassah easily caught up to Husu, who was meandering tiredly back toward the Levis' tent.

"Husu, what in the world was he asking you about all this time?"

He shrugged. "Our names, and what they mean. Our family connections…what names we have for all kinds of relations, and who is allowed to marry who…so many questions," he yawned. "I'm so tired, I can't even remember. I was just making up stuff after a while."

Hadassah was simultaneously shocked and amused. "Husu, you _didn't_." She regarded the young man closely, and caught the spark of laughter in his eyes despite his deadpan expression. "Husu," she attempted to scold, "what did you tell him?"

"Nothing _terrible_ ," he insisted. "It was just that he was so excited to have answers to his questions. If I did not know something, he was so disappointed. He is a _guest_ , Dr. Levi," he pronounced, as if that explained all. "I did not want him to be sad."

He grinned sidelong at her, as if he were daring her to keep a straight face. She was trying, with marginal success.

"Husu -" she began again, but now she was interrupted by the sound of a new arrival to the hilltop. She whirled in surprise to see a man striding purposefully toward the tent, where her husband and Heath were still in conversation. They too stood and turned to face the visitor, who seemed to be issuing a challenge – loudly - as he approached.

" ** _SERGEANT_** _ **!**_ " the big man bellowed, pointing at Heath and calling him out. " _ **Sergeant Heath Thomson!**_ Front and center, boy, and _**now**_ ** _!_** "


	139. Chapter 138 - Branches

_Night, the beloved. Night, when_ _words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree._

 _Antoine_ _de Saint-Exupery_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, January 11, 1875_**

" ** _Sergeant Heath Thomson!_** "

"What the Devil…?" Heath breathed, automatically moving to shield the Rabbi behind him as he rose to face the source of the shouting. _What kind of trouble was this, now?_ The last memory he had of anyone making reference to his Army rank was not a pleasant one, and he briefly wondered if one of Morgan's cronies had come back to settle a score for his fallen commander.

Before Heath could get eyes on the man, however, his line of sight was cut off. He gaped in surprise as no fewer than five men - Sam, John, Frank, Jarrod and Nick – all converged in their defense, intercepting the noisy intruder.

Solomon came to stand behind him. " _Gevalt_. What is this?"

"Was just asking myself the same question."

The sudden menace dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. The small group of men began laughing and greeting each other with surprise and enthusiasm.

"Who…? Could it be…?" Heath murmured, a smile spreading over his face.

Sam's voice rose up clear as a bell. "Lord be praised, if it isn't the big red-headed Yank with the busted leg! Where'd **_you_** come from? I see you lost that limb, boy, I'm sorry about that, but it don't seem to be slowin' you down none."

"Where'd **_I_** come from? Where in blazes did **_you_** come from?? Sam? I can't believe it. It's you - really? How – how did - ?"

"Mikey!"

"Heath, what the hell, have you gone native now? _Jesus_ , kid, look at you, you're walking like an old man. Could you please just stay out of trouble for even a month or two maybe? Let that nice Barkley family feed you up a little bit? And where did you find this crazy man??"

"It's a long story, Mikey, I'll fill you in, I promise. But what about you? What are you doing here?"

"That's easy. Your lovely sister Audra contacted me and told me you were getting married to a beautiful young doctor I am also quite fond of, and no way was I going to miss that. And neither, of course, were the twins."

"Artemis and Tommy? They're here? Where are they?"

"Audra had a job for them. They'll be along – I think. Can't say I really know a thing about what all is going on up here, 'cept I can tell it's a party." He grinned and gave Heath a hug. "Congratulations, young man. And happy birthday, by the way. Don't think I forgot. I know it's ten years and a day late, but I'm glad I can celebrate with you now. And I wish you many, many more."

"Feels like a birthday, all right."

Heath mirrored Mike's smile and casual tone, but the flush of emotion that came with those words caught him a bit by surprise. He had to look away for a breath or two just to settle himself.

John had moved up beside him; Heath felt his hand settle on his shoulder right at the base of his neck, giving a gentle squeeze. The touch was welcome, and – Heath realized, with some surprise – it had become familiar; distinctive; recognizably _John_. It spoke volumes; just as did the nod Jarrod gave him just now, with a slight quirk of an encouraging smile. There was Nick's laugh, his slap on the back, and that light in his eyes when he looked at Heath; both challenge and summons, it was a look that shouted Nick's belief they could take on the world together, and a dare for Heath to prove him right.

Heath breathed it in. _These connections…_ He felt himself **_present_** in the moment, he realized. Not held there, as by a confining tether or an act of will, but _engaged_. It was a living thing of roots and branches, giving and receiving. He breathed it in, and let himself relax. Slowly. Just a little bit - testing the feeling.

"Mike, you've met Rabbi Levi, of course – my, um – my father-in-law," Heath said, more or less evenly, though it was clear to see he was still feeling a few nerves in this new role and relation.

"Good to see you again, Rabbi," Mike shook his hand warmly. "And congratulations." He leaned toward Heath and spoke in a confidential – yet clearly audible - voice. " _My_ father-in-law was terrifying, Heath. Helena's Papa was a Doctor of Philosophy – a Professor, for real – and his little girl was his favorite pupil. He had some – well – some mixed feelings about her marrying a wannabe blacksmith.

"We're thick as thieves, now, though, Dr. Stanley and I. Get along famously. I'm an expert in the fine art of gentling the father-in-law. I'll coach you."

The rabbi raised a hand to his beard to cover a smile and turned to beckon Hadassah, his eyes glinting with suppressed laughter. Heath was looking at Mike with an expression of disbelief. Mike, however, had already shifted his attention to Marshal Smith.

"And speaking of that…I ran into that fine young deputy of yours, Marshal, when I arrived – Jim Roberts -?" He grinned as John regarded him suspiciously. "Yeah, I thought as much. Audra's got a sparkle in her eye for that young man. I 'spect he'll be needing a little help in the scary father-in-law department. He's a quick study, though. Not like this one here." He nudged Heath.

Heath drew breath to retort, but Mike was already hailing Dr. Levi and rushing away to greet her. Heath exhaled wordlessly, shook his head, and admitted to himself he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. He looked at Nick, who shrugged with an amused gesture that took in the whole hilltop.

"This is your party, Heath," he grinned. Heath rolled his eyes and looked appealingly at Jarrod instead.

Jarrod had been following the signs in Heath's expression and held up a reassuring hand. He flagged over Frank to say something inaudible in his ear; Frank nodded his pleased agreement and hurried off back toward the sweat lodge. Heath watched him go, feeling more at sea with every passing minute.

On one level, Heath's jitters now were of the sort to be expected in a temperamentally quiet man, confronted with a big, unpredictable social gathering in which he is to play a central role. This gathering, however, was awash with emotions, histories, reunions, and life-changing transition - for himself, and most everyone else. The people Heath loved most in the world had gathered here in this village, shining roots and branches somehow interwoven with all the ragged and convoluted trails of his life. Heath looked around himself and felt…overwhelmed.

John dipped his head down by his ear. "No worries, son. Just go with it. Keep your focus on the lady you love, and everything else will fall into place one way or another."

That made Heath chuckle. "Good advice. Thanks, John." He glanced at Nick and Jarrod, who had come up to stand beside him. "Where'd you send Frank?"

"You looked like you needed -"

" _Hannah_." Heath interjected with evident relief as he saw her approaching with Frank. Jarrod could feel his tightly-wound tension ease substantially. "And Mother - and Silas -" Heath hurried over to greet the older man. "Silas, thank you so much for coming. I feel like I haven't seen you in years."

Silas' face was truly shining. Jarrod raised his eyebrows in mild surprise to see him abandon his usual formality and throw his arms around Heath.

"Feels like a long time, yes it does," he said, his eyes closed. "You been travelin' a long, hard road, Heath – long and weary, but you're here now. You're here. We've been prayin' for you."

"I know it, Silas, I know it. Thank you, my friend." He leaned back to meet his eyes. Silent understanding warmed the space between them, and Silas' smile widened, just a bit. Heath cleared his throat, and blinked, flushing slightly. He dropped his eyes and reached out to straighten the lapel of Silas' wool coat. "Look at you," he said gruffly, softly. "Dressed for the trail and you still make the rest of us look scruffy."

"I missed you too, Heath," Silas agreed. "Missed you a lot."

Heath tipped his head toward Hannah, who was watching with a peaceful, knowing expression. "Did you figure out the whole acorn meal problem? Seemed like Hannah was running out of ideas."

"Oh, yes. Hannah and I, I think we're onto something. Just about got it figured out. But Miss Hannah? She's like Miz Barkley Smith that way. They don't ever run out of ideas."

"I think you're right about that." He turned to the two women as they approached. Hannah was carrying a small box of worn, dark leather that Heath realized he had seen before, tucked in the back of a chest in which Rachael had kept her few personal things.

Hannah held it out to him. "Rachael and your mama always wanted you to have this, Heath. I been keeping it for you."

She watched him, her eyes bright and solemn. He hesitated, then reached out, so carefully, to take the box in his hands. He pushed aside the latch and opened it. A ring lay inside on a bed of deep black velvet. The velvet was plush and new; the ring glowed within it, a simple but substantial band of unadorned gold. It had been burnished to a shine, though there was about it an aura of time and history.

"It belonged to Rachael's mother," Hannah said. "She gave it to Rachael when she died, for when she would be married someday. Rachael lost both of her parents when she was young, you know, when she was in school learning to be a teacher. The other relatives didn't much approve of our Rachael and her ideas," she added with quiet affection, "so she left Connecticut in '46 and made her way out west. Once she met Leah, well, she knew where her heart would stay. So they kept the ring for you." She smiled fondly at Victoria standing beside her. "I was going to give it to you at Thanksgiving, but Miz Victoria had the idea that we should bring it to her jeweler, have it cleaned up proper and sized to fit Rivka's hand."

"Thank you," Heath said, distantly at first, his eyes full of memory as he gazed at the ring. He felt the rough leather under his fingers, and imagined Rachael carrying it with her across the whole broad country; he thought about Rachael, somehow finding her heart's home with Leah in a little mining town thousands of miles from where she started.

 _So did Hannah,_ he thought. _So did I. Thousands of miles._

The resonant whinny of a horse sounded from a distance, interrupting his reverie. _That's Nox,_ he noted automatically. He looked up at Hannah and Victoria. "Thank you," he said with deep feeling. "Thank you so much."

"I'm so glad Hannah could bring it – a reminder of your Mama and Rachael." Victoria seemed to be searching for the right words to say. "So you could give it to Rivka."

Heath knew, without it being said: if it were one of her natural children newly married or betrothed, Victoria Barkley Smith would know exactly what to say. She would most likely be mistress of the situation, in command, even on such unfamiliar territory.

There was so much she wanted to give him. Heath could see it in her eyes, in her posture. He was unutterably grateful for it.

"Mother." He closed the box and moved closer to her, stroking one hand gently from her shoulder to her elbow. He gazed down at her. He knew she would always see something of Tom in his face; far deeper than that, though, was the bond that had grown between them, a connection that had nothing to do with blood ties. They shared a smile. "Mother," he repeated, with wonder. "I am a wealthy, wealthy man," he said, "to be able to call you that." He studied her fondly. He then looked in mild puzzlement at the box in his hand, as a question came to him. "How did you know what size would fit Rivka?"

"Oh, well, that was easy. I made a point of cleaning my jewelry when Rivka was around, so I could get her to try on a few of my rings." She glanced at Hannah, who nodded for her to continue. "There is also a letter in the box, Heath. For you. From Rachael and Leah."

"A letter…?" Heath looked at the box in his hand, then at the faces around him: Nick and Jarrod at his shoulder; John coming around to stand behind Victoria; Hannah and Silas. "Hannah, do you -?"

"I know what it says, child, I's there when they wrote it. You might want to wait 'til later to read it, though, when you and Rivka have some quiet time."

"Quiet time," he exhaled, clearly relieved and grateful for the suggestion. "Right. Later. That makes sense." He looked up when Nox whinnied again, closer this time. He saw Jed and Rafaela, Montana, and Roberts gathering in from one direction; Haja and her husband and several village elders approaching from another.

 _But where is --?_

"Ah, here they come," Jarrod said, resting a hand on Heath's shoulder. "Right on time."

"Right on time…?"

"It's a figure of speech, brother. You ready?"

" ** _I_** sure am," Nick pronounced, one big hand landing on Heath's other shoulder. "Let's go see what Audra has been up to."

A lively and beautiful violin melody spiraled up out of the woods. Moshe came into view, conjuring magic from the Guarneri and leading a small celebratory parade. Nox emerged from the dappled shadows of the oak and pine trees and crossed the open hilltop, escorted by Ilsa and Peter to one side, and Teleli and Hekeke to the other. Behind this group came Audra. She was laughing and marshalling Avram, David, Tommy, and Artemis as they carried forward four upright poles upon which she had suspended a lovely blue and gold cloth to form a canopy.

Nox approached with solemn beauty. She moved with the grace that comes of tempered strength; as Heath stood in speechless admiration, Nox came to him, bearing a raven-haired princess draped in white silk.

The princess smiled down at him.

 _Like a bright silver full moon breaking through the clouds,_ he thought, feeling just a bit as if he were floating. _So beautiful –_

"Hey, cowboy," she said.

"Hey." Heath gazed up at her, unsure whether he actually had spoken aloud. He felt Jarrod take the leather box from his hand, and replace it with a light piece of fabric.

"Heath." That was Nick, nudging him. "Hey. Heath. Go get your girl and do the veil thing the Rabbi told you about."

"The veil thing. Right." He cleared his throat and looked at the lace and silk in his hand as if he had no idea where it came from.

"The girl, Heath," Jarrod whispered in his other ear, grinning. "Go get the lady you love. And remember what John said."

 _Everything else will fall into place one way or another._ Heath glanced at his brothers, who were clearly amused by his discomfiture. He took a deep breath, gave them a grin, and stood up a little straighter. "OK, right, OK, I got this." He stepped to the horse and reached up his hand. Rivka slipped lightly to the ground and into his arms.

"No kissing yet," she held up one finger, her lips curved in a smile.

He lofted the veil and let it settle gently over her dark hair. He took her hand and led her to the _chuppah_. They circled it four times, prayers on their lips. They entered under the canopy together, and Heath lifted the veil from Rivka's face while her family and Moshe together said the seven blessings for marriage. Jarrod brought Heath the ring, and he slipped it on Rivka's finger, as they spoke to each other the words of marital commitment.

Grinning broadly, Nick placed a small bag on the ground by Heath's foot. "I've been looking forward to this," he whispered to Jarrod as he stepped back.

Smiling and weeping himself, Solomon said the words to conclude the ceremony, and Heath stomped on the bag, shattering the glass inside.

" _Mazel Tov_!" yelled Husu, throwing his hands in the air. He was echoed by a chorus of jubilant Miwok children, and soon after, by most of the Miwok adults as well. Through the days of celebration that followed, there was singing, dancing, and feasting, and the cry of _Mazel Tov_ could be heard all over the village. Professor McNutt bent over his ledgers, carefully recording the wealth of Miwok words and phrases he was gathering for his lexicon.


	140. Chapter 139 - Unity

_Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,  
Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,  
Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:  
Then would she hold me and never let me go?_

 _Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,  
Swift as the swallow along the river's light  
Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets,  
Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight._

 _Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,_  
 _Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,_  
 _She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,_  
 _Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!  
_ _. . ._

 _Fair as in image my seraph love appears_  
 _Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids:_  
 _Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.  
_ _· · ·_

 _Could I find a place to be alone with heaven,_  
 _I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need._

 _George Meredith, "Love in the Valley"_

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, January 11, 1874_**

He kissed his bride. The deep blue silk of the canopy above them lifted gently, undulating in the mountain air. The gold threaded patterns of the fabric sparkled in the bright winter sunshine. Heath took Rivka in his arms and kissed her, and for a moment, it was just the two of them: just the kiss; just the smile in her eyes and the warmth of her body; just gratitude; just here, now, _this_.

Just a few minutes, but there was a lifetime in that kiss. A lifetime…

They were encompassed by family, friends, and an entire village, all ready to celebrate; the couple was, therefore, promptly interrupted. Hand in hand, they stepped out from under the _chuppah_. There was one more ritual to fulfill.

There came a quiet step behind them, and a soft, questioning whicker of a horse. Heath and Rivka shared a smile.

"Nachtmuzik," she whispered.

Unseen at a small distance away, Moshe lifted his bow and conjured up Mozart. The joyful melody pinwheeled through the bright California air, weaving over, under, and around the Miwok drums, rattles, and songs; it was a mélange of sound both novel and timeless.

They turned to see Nox, now saddled, bridled, and nicely outfitted for the trail. Heath's practiced eye took in the expertly stowed bedroll, tarp tent, canteen and full saddlebags, as well as his rifle in one scabbard and his longbow in the other. He could see the work of Audra's deft hand in the packing. That assessment took but a second; his attention was held by the young redheaded warrior who stood at the horse's head.

"Huntress," he greeted her warmly, his voice softened by respect and deep affection.

"Uncle Heath," she responded. "Aunt Rivka. Congratulations."

Heath's smile widened, though he raised one brow in puzzlement at her restraint. He could see the effort she was making, however, so he did his best to match her tone.

"Artemis. You and I have a lot to talk about. And there are several people who want very much to meet you – Hannah, and Teleli, and Husu, for starters –"

Artemis was barely maintaining her formal, controlled demeanor. Her eyes sparkled with suppressed exuberance, and she assiduously avoided eye contact with either her father or Tommy, for fear she would lose her composure. Even so, she did not think she could continue with her planned speech, and she looked to Ilsa for help.

Ilsa came forward to stand by Nox. She winked at Artemis, and shared a grin with Rivka that left Heath wondering what the women had been planning in their absence.

"Heath." There was a fluid joy in her speech, and laughter in her eyes. "I do not think we have actually been introduced, for all that our lives and families have become intertwined. I cannot say enough how grateful I am to you and Rivka, to Audra and your family, to Teleli and this village, to the doctor who saved my Peter, to Moshe – and to Nox, who brought us all back together. So many connections. So much love and bravery. So much to be grateful for."

"Ilsa," he said with a wondering smile. "The Laughing Woman, now. It suits you. Teleli would talk to me about you. You held on to hope through your darkest time, Oša. You helped Teleli do the same, and for that alone I owe you my life." He paused, taking in the faces around him and feeling the truth of his words, and hers. _So many connections._ "So much to be grateful for. I am so glad to see you and Peter together and safe, and your beautiful baby girl – and Nox. I've lost count," he added, diffidently, "of how many times that horse of yours has come to my rescue."

"And yet," she mused, "I understand you have never actually ridden her."

"Well, no – not exactly," he stammered, feeling suddenly flushed and self-conscious. He saw Audra grinning at him, and he shot a puzzled look at her, and then Rivka, who wore an expression of peaceful anticipation. That, at least, was reassuring. Rivka slipped her arm around his waist and he relaxed, running a gentle hand over her shoulders.

"In any case," Ilsa went on, "Artemis had a wonderful idea while we were preparing our procession. Moshe and Rivka were explaining to us about the _heder yichud._ "

Heath raised his eyebrows in surprise as he began to suspect what Artemis' idea had been.

Solomon and he had talked over a few things before the ceremony. For the most part, they had sought to put each other at ease, given the circumstances. The rabbi had taken time in that brief conversation to instruct and remind Heath about the elements of the ritual itself, including the _heder yichud_.

Immediately following a Jewish wedding ceremony, he had explained, the bride and groom traditionally retreat to a room where they can be secluded together, alone, for a brief time. It is an interlude to mark their transition into marriage; and it is an opportunity for the two to focus on each other and their _yichud_ – their unity - before they rejoin the wedding guests as a married couple.

"We were debating several ideas and locations for a _heder yichud_ ," Ilsa was saying, turning to the slim girl holding Nox' rein, "but then Artemis had the best solution."

Artemis held out the rein, a brilliant smile now on her face. "Nox will take you and Rivka to your _yichud,_ wherever you want that to be," she announced proudly. Then, quietly: "But don't stay away _too_ long, because I miss you, and Teleli told me you would show me how to knap better arrowheads."

 _Yichud. Rivka._ Heath inhaled deeply. _Nox, that sounds like heaven to me right now._

Heath did not immediately take the proffered rein; he knelt, instead, to hug Artemis warmly and promise her they would be back with plenty of time to visit.

She pressed the rein into his hand, but before he stood, she whispered, "She's an awfully big horse, Uncle Heath. You going to be able to get up there?"

Heath followed her gaze up to the tall mare, who looked even more imposing from where he knelt. Nox tossed her head as if she too were issuing him a challenge.

 _Good question,_ he thought.

"She's big. I could barely make it," Artemis went on in tones of professional collegiality.

"Wait. **_You_** got up there? How'd you even reach the saddle horn?"

She knew she had him now. She shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. "I had to jump. And a little bit of a running start. _You_ shouldn't need that, though, right?" she opined, confidentially. "I told Tommy and Avram and David that if **_I_** could get up there, it was for sure **_you_** could do it. They didn't believe me, but I know you'll prove me right."

He shook his head, smiling at the puckish gleam in her eyes. "Oh, Huntress, you do know how to play me. I'm just glad you're on my side."

"Have a nice picnic, Uncle Heath."

He stood and turned to Rivka. The look in her eyes was making his heart race - with joy as well as simple, burning desire. He swallowed. "I know a beautiful spot along Sullivan's Creek, not too far from here…"

"I'll ride anywhere with you, cowboy," she agreed, her expression bright with anticipation. She leaned in close, then, her lips by his ear. "Go jump up on that horse, love."

 _Desire…_ He wanted to grab her hand and run off that very instant. He made himself pause, though. He made himself stop. He took a brief breath of time to study her face and feel her presence; and to hold that moment forever in his memory.

 _Memory. Time._ As ever, he could sense that bright silver weaving thread; he could feel it, follow it, trace it forward and back. Now, though, in this moment, he was humming with the energy of this place, these people, these connections. He could feel it in his bones: a deep flow, the source of that bright line, that full moving river on its way to the sea.

 _I can trust myself._

 _Breathe in. Breathe out. The river flows._

He could trust it to carry him forward. He could trust himself to be husband to this woman he loved, and father to their child.

He kissed her. "Let's go," he said.

"Not in this dress!" she pronounced. "Are you kidding?" Rivka began untying the sash of the white gown, creating a knot in her hurry. "Audra! I need your help!" she called, laughing.

"I'm coming!"

Jarrod and Nick stood grinning and watching the unconventional proceedings unfold. Audra came rushing over, first scolding her brothers to get out of her way, then giggling as she helped Rivka untangle herself from the yards of fine white fabric in which she had been draped, sari-style. Beneath she was dressed for riding. Rivka threw on her winter coat and beamed at her husband, breathless.

Grinning, he turned to Nox and reached out to trace the fine white blaze of her face.

"What do you say, Nox?" he asked. "Take us for a ride?" She whickered low and tossed her head with a hint of impatience.

 _Big horse._

He reminded himself he had been doing this all his life. Such a reminder had become a habit, though he hoped the day would come when it was no longer necessary. He grabbed the saddle horn with his right hand. He wanted to use both hands, but her height made that too difficult.

 _Really big horse,_ he thought again, trying to picture Artemis jumping to reach the saddle. The image made him smile _._ He thought of waves on the beach. He could see them, hear them, even taste them; green-blue swells rising, rising, and curling down with slow, effortless power. He stepped back with his right foot, and forward with his left, and jumped.

The feeling of a horse moving beneath him and a whoop of celebration from Artemis snapped him back into focus. He found himself firmly astride Nox, the reins in his hand. He settled himself, marveling at the balance and prodigious power he could so clearly sense in her. He was aware of blazing lines of pain pulsating from his right shoulder on down across his back and into his right leg; it was enough to make his eyes water, but it was already receding, waning with the awareness of tide and wave.

There was a brief flash of fear – _How did I get up here? –_ but he brushed it aside.

 _You know damn well how you got up here. Trust it._

 _Ride._

He reached out a hand to Rivka. Nick gave her a boost, and she settled in behind Heath, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tightly. Then she threw back her head and sang out that ululating, wild cry of celebration. Nox pranced and whinnied – and then, to Heath's amazement, the cry was echoed by almost every woman and child in the village. The sound rose up trilling around them on the hilltop, rising and falling in overlapping streams of sound. Heath smiled in wonderment and with no small feeling of awe; Nox spun in place once as he took it all in. He looked back over his shoulder at Rivka, feeling like the luckiest man ever born.

"Ride, cowboy," she laughed.

He asked Nox to fly, and she took off at a gallop, carrying them forward with a sound of thunder, of drums, of a beating heart.


	141. Chapter 140 and Epilogue

_On the ashes of this nest_

 _Love wove with deathly fire_

 _The phoenix takes its rest_

 _Forgetting all desire._

 _After the flame, a pause,_

 _After the pain, rebirth._

 _Obeying nature's laws_

 _The phoenix goes to earth._

 _You cannot call it old_

 _You cannot call it young._

 _No phoenix can be told,_

 _This is the end of song._

 _It struggles now alone_

 _Against death and self-doubt,_

 _But underneath the bone_

 _The wings are pushing out._

 _And one cold starry night_

 _Whatever your belief_

 _The phoenix will take flight_

 _Over the seas of grief_

 _To sing her thrilling song_

 _To stars and waves and sky_

 _For neither old nor young_

 _The phoenix does not die._

 _May Sarton, "The Phoenix Again"_

* * *

 ** _Sutamasina, afternoon, January 15, 1875_**

It was a mild, sunny morning. A cool winter breeze whispered gently over the village. Up in the high Sierra, a few casual banks of cloud broke and dissipated against the granite peaks; the distant fresh fields of snow blazed white against the sky. To the west, the ghostly curve of the moon arced silently along her path; she traveled into the darkness, her face turned to the sun.

"These stupid poles!" Audra fumed. She straddled the side of the buckboard, straining to push a bundle of tent supports into a gap between a row of barrels and a stack of rolled up bedding.

Audra had been working with Silas since sunrise, organizing and packing up the buckboard for their imminent return to the ranch. He found her to be unusually taciturn and preoccupied this morning, her mood distinctly different from the quiet thoughtfulness he had observed in her since the experience of the sweat lodge.

"I **_know_** they fit in here sideways before! Gosh darn it – these stupid, **_stupid_** – oh - !"

Flushed and furious, Audra had shoved again, as hard as she could. The poles abruptly slid forward, tearing loudly into the bedding, and Audra was nearly lost to view within a dense, swirling flurry of down feathers.

Early this morning, she had deflected Silas' oblique inquiry as to her state of mind. When her preoccupation bristled up into this irritable fit of temper, however, Silas wiped his hands, straightened his jacket, and stepped in to intervene – too late, unfortunately, to save one of the down quilts he had packed for Mrs. Barkley-Smith against the winter night's chill.

Audra stared down at him now, speechless, breathless, and bewildered in a blizzard of her own making. He offered her a gentle smile, and a hand to help her down from the buckboard. Once she was standing before him, however, he spoke firmly, brushing aside both her apology and her intent to clean up the mess.

"Miss Audra. We got plenty done already, and it's easy to see right now you have other things to tend to. I'll take care of this. It's just a blanket. Go find your brother."

She accepted Silas' wisdom along with his help brushing off the feathers, all the while chafing under the awareness that he understood her state of mind better than she did herself. His sober encouragement warmed her, as always. She thanked him, and then she went looking for Heath.

She did not see him anywhere around the barn, which surprised her. Even at the height of the several-days-long village festival, the barn was where she most often could find him, working to fortify and improve that weather-beaten building.

Audra understood that this work was not just about shingles and siding: not for Heath, nor for any of them. Over the days since the sweat lodge and the marriage ceremony, she had watched him, with a clarity of sight burnished by the steam of the ritual.

She saw joy in her brother: humbled, and deeply mixed with mourning, but joy nonetheless. Piece by gathered piece, he was rebuilding a place of hope from the bones of an abandoned ruin.

 _Mother is so sure he will come back to us. I wish I were so certain._

Each day, he looked stronger, and moved more easily. He smiled more, especially when his eyes followed Rivka as she walked among her patients, students, and nurses. He even laughed, at times. From up on a ladder or climbing the rafters with tools and lumber - often with a few nails in his mouth and a pencil behind his ear – Heath had set himself to coaching the Miwok adults in the unfamiliar arts of carpentry and plumbing. The building had become a hospital, a school, and a shelter; it had grown into a project and a source of pride for the whole village.

Heath would climb down from wherever he was working, to confer with Rivka about the building, or to assist her in her work. In the hospital and the surgery, Audra noticed, Heath approached Rivka with deliberate, careful respect. The physical attraction between them was nonetheless obvious. It glowed and sparked in the slightest glance or touch. Rivka would blush at the gentle stroke of his hand along her arm as he assisted her down from a stepladder. He would smile, his fingertips lingering just a bit, before he returned to his tasks.

Heath had transformed the small loft in the corner into a simple one-room home for Rivka and himself. It was one of the first tasks he had completed, for obvious reasons. He suffered a fair share of ribbing about _that_ , but he just smiled, and was soon caught up in the larger work.

The village this morning was unusually quiet. The "Big Time" celebration of feasting, dancing, and gambling had come to a close. The depleted population of the village had grown, in the interim. Word had spread. Several individuals and family groups – refugees, sole survivors, and escapees from a scattering of Miwok and Yokuts villages – had made their way to Sutamasina, seeking a home and a place of safety. Word of mouth suggested more were coming. The new arrivals were being welcomed by Haja and other elders in the roundhouse. The children, meanwhile, were gathered for the first orderly meal they had had in days.

Into this unusual hush, Audra went walking, in search of her brother. She found him alone out beyond the barn, forking hay into the paddock for the horses. Nike whinnied a sociable greeting as she approached.

Rarely was Heath without a spirited, changeable entourage of children. They ebbed and eddied, flowing around their Me'weh like a sparkling river, always subject to the tidal pull of lessons, chores, mealtimes and sleep. By some sleight of alchemy, he could always find just the right way to catch up their interest and draw them into the work at hand. Try as she might, Audra could not figure out the secret of his uncanny intuition in this regard. It warmed her heart; it made her smile; it also made her a little bit jealous. She imagined such a magic touch would make her Sunday school class a great deal easier to manage.

It was just one of so many qualities she admired in him; one of many she sought to nurture in herself. She knew Heath would not accept such a sentiment from her in the way Nick or Jarrod would. _That's how **I** want to be, _she would say, and they would receive their young sister's honor as their due – just as her father had accepted it from his daughter.

Not Heath, she was certain. He would think her aspirations misplaced. He would more than likely warn her off, and tell her to reach higher than the tumbleweed cowboy who had become her brother. _You can be so much more, sis. You can do whatever you set your mind to._

She wished they could have grown up together.

She wished they had had more _time_.

"Audra? Audra, honey, what's the matter?"

She sniffed and tried to smile. "I'm sorry. I wasn't planning to come up here all weepy, honest."

"What, then?"

"Just – just missing you. It's silly. Wishing we could've been kids together." She wiped her eyes brusquely, once again irritable and impatient with herself. "But that wasn't why I came looking for you."

"I think I know why," he said, studying her face seriously. "The brood mare and two-year-old auction. It's in – what – a week? Not much time to get ready."

"No, it **_isn't_** much time." Remembering her mother's words, Audra lifted her chin and blinked back the tears. "It's one week from today. This auction is critical. We were supposed to do this together, Heath, but if I - if I have to do it by myself – well, I will need to prepare. We were – we **_are_** – partners in this, right? I need to know what I can expect from you," she concluded firmly, "so I can plan."

She looked him in the eye, her jaw tight. She was pleased that she had spoken so dispassionately. She was utterly unaware that the stoic, close-lipped expression she now wore was one that Leah Thomson – or Rachael, or Hannah - would have recognized in an instant.

Heath, on the other hand, had the distinct feeling he was looking in a mirror. He bit back a sudden urge to laugh as a memory of his mother's exasperated scolding came bubbling through his mind: a musical soliloquy of Kentucky slang, embellished with cuss words dipped in molasses. It was the sound of a woman fed up and at her wit's end with her stubborn, self-reliant son.

That humor would strike a wrong note here, he was certain. He inhaled slowly, nodded, and did not speak until he was sure she would hear only the love and respect he felt for her.

 _Sister._ Even now, that word - that idea – _this young woman in front of me_ – she did not fail to fill him with a sense of wonder.

"We are in this together, Audra. I am sorry I've left you so up in the air. I know how important this is."

Her expression began to darken with disappointment. "Well, can you at least help me make a list -" she began, but Heath had continued speaking.

"Now, I hope you brought the latest catalog, somewhere in that chock-full buckboard of yours. I need to get a look at the listings if I'm gonna have a chance of being useful down there. And you need to learn how to arrange shipping for your stock - and especially how to make sure your animals are getting what you're paying for. I can start walking you through that."

"You mean you'll come to Modesto? Next week? You **_will_**?" She closed the distance between them and hugged him ferociously. "Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad!"

"Don't celebrate yet, sis. You're gonna have your work cut out for you once you get those ponies back to the ranch. Good thing at least that new barn is mostly finished and stocked up with feed for the rest of the winter."

He grinned as she regained her businesslike mien and dismissed his warning with a wave.

"But first - I need a favor from you. I need your skills as a horsewoman."

Hands on hips, Audra drew herself up to her full height and turned imperiously to face him. "You're asking **_me_** for a favor? Heath Barkley, you have some nerve, after all the worry you've put me through. Now you think you can **_bargain_**?"

Heath considered her objection seriously. "You're right, you're right," he admitted. "I have been a terrible bother. And I didn't get back in time for Christmas like you wanted. I **_did_** make your birthday deadline, though," he countered. "I should get some credit for that, don't you think?"

"You barely made it back by your birthday, Heath. **_Barely_** \- and not in very good shape, either. _Credit_? You should be grateful I'm not demanding you take me to San Francisco right now to shop for upholstery."

His eyes widened in alarm at this. "Fair enough," he conceded, holding up both hands, "fair enough." He sighed, scuffed a boot on the ground, and pursed his lips, considering his options. He glanced up to catch the brimming of humor in her eyes. "It's just that – well, I really could use your help."

She relented. "OK, _fine_. What do you need?"

"C'mon and I'll show you. And while we're walking, you can fill me in on what you're thinking about Jim Roberts. I know you want to talk about it."

" _Heath_...!"

"Am I wrong?"

"No," she laughed, reluctantly.

"Is he being a gentleman?" He watched her expression closely as she answered in the affirmative. Reassured, he went on. "Jim's a good man. Brave, smart, and loyal. He's a marshal, though, honey. It's a dangerous, unpredictable line of work. Have you thought about that?"

" _He_ has," she said seriously. Jim had brought it up almost casually just the day before. "He mentioned he had been talking to Jarrod about studying law."

That brief conversation had set her heart pounding – in a good way, she realized. It had skirted suddenly close to a proposal of marriage, taking them both by surprise. She smiled as she remembered how they had nervously changed the subject.

"Heath," she said suddenly, turning to face him. "I don't want only to be someone's wife and homemaker. I don't want to just dress up and float from charity to charity."

"No argument from me there, honey," he agreed earnestly.

"I want to keep learning. I want to build something of my own, something that _matters_ – like Rivka has, and Mother, and Hadassah. Even Hannah," she added with a grin. "She reminds me of Nick sometimes. Follows her own mind, no matter whatever." She sobered. "When I'm with Jim – I think – I feel like – I feel like he understands that about me. He _likes_ it. Aside from you, I don't think I've ever really seen that in a man before. Well, maybe Nick, sometimes, though only to a certain point."

"Nick." Heath chuckled. "Give him time, honey. I've learned that. Give both your brothers a little time, and they'll come around. They'll always have your back."

The sound of Sam's booming voice carried to them up from the village, as the meeting in the roundhouse appeared to be ending.

" _Winemah_! Headwoman!" they heard him call. "Haja, this wayward boy needs your guidance!"

"What...?" Curious now, Heath and Audra peered down the path, to see Sam herding Husu ahead of him like a naughty schoolboy.

"Oh, what did he do now?" Audra wondered, grinning.

Under the meal tent, Moshe was telling tales to an amused group of listeners. "This reminds me of an old Yiddish joke," he said. "It starts like this: A Rabbi, a Preacher, a Shaman, and a Justice of the Peace walk into an Indian village to perform a cowboy wedding."

"Mr. Schoenberg, there has _never_ been a joke that goes like that," said Avram, laughing.

"Not in any language," agreed David.

"Well, there should be." Moshe countered. "But what is Sam going on about now? Is that Husu?"

Haja stood with her husband, hands on hips, and watched as Sam delivered Husu into her presence. The preacher's expression was a confusing mix of disapproval and hilarity. Haja sighed. Few people elicited **_that_** reaction as routinely as did Husu.

Curious, Moshe and the Levis drifted over to listen.

" _Yes_ …?" Haja inquired, resolving to remain stern for as long as possible.

"Professor McNutt shared some of his notes with me," Sam reported, "as he was preparing to return to the university. It appears young Husu has been an overly… ** _creative_** …informant."

"Oh, Husu!" Hadassah exclaimed. "What did you tell him?"

"A full account could take a while," Sam advised darkly. "Maybe you should just ask him for a few examples. And if he won't tell you – well, I can give you several."

"Um -" Husu temporized, looking everywhere but at Haja's expectant face. She waited.

"OK, OK," he muttered, "for _example_ -" He shot an accusatory look at Sam. He just as quickly looked away, when he realized Sam was practically weeping with the effort not to burst out laughing. "- I told him that my mother's father was named for the sound of – of –" Sam turned away, making a sound reminiscent of a teakettle. Haja tried to frown. Husu choked out the rest as fast as he could. "- the sound of an Elk passing his water in the woods. Because he needed a water name, but there was a drought, and his parents couldn't think of anything else -"

Haja gave up, and the group collapsed into hilarity.

"What's funny to me," gasped Kosumi, wiping his eyes, "is how well that name would have fit the man. He was _smelly_. But a good hunter."

A semblance of order was eventually restored. Haja, realizing Husu had been misinforming the professor for days, pronounced that not only would Husu make a confession, he would go through and correct McNutt's notes; further, he would assist with transcription and whatever other tasks McNutt might find for him in his research.

Hadassah and Solomon had to compliment Haja on her wisdom in this. Anything Husu could learn from the professor would eventually enrich the education he gave to the children of the village. Avram and David were still laughing as they wandered off.

"An elk passing water…!"

"I think your name should be "feet smelling like dead fish."

* * *

 _Remember your God_

 _before the silver cord is snapped,_

 _and the golden bowl is crushed,_

 _before the pitcher is shattered at the spring,_

 _and the wheel is broken at the well,_

 _before the dust returns to the ground from which it came,_

 _and the spirit returns to God who gave it._

 _Ecclesiastes 12:6-7_

 ** _Sutamasina, January 16, 187_** ** _5_**

The next day, Hadassah and Hannah wandered a meandering path together through the undulating southeastern hills of the village, their eyes searching the ground. Periodically, one or the other would point out a useful or edible plant, and they would crouch together to investigate, or gather a few specimens for their baskets. They both looked up at the sound of laughter and bleating goats.

"Oh, ain't that a blessed sight," Hannah hummed. Hadassah sighed in happy agreement as they both rose to their feet to take in the activity below.

There appeared to be a roundup in progress, though both women were certain it was unlike any roundup that had ever occurred on Barkley range.

Rivka, Sam, Mikey, Avram, and David were observing the enterprise from a high perch on a stone wall near the old farm house. Jarrod and Nick lounged just outside the verge of the action, contentedly sitting their saddled mounts and smoking cigars like two cattle tycoons at the end of a big sale.

The brothers had, in fact, just come from Sonora, herding ahead of them a large and rambunctious addition to the Sutamasina goat flock. They had been escorted a short distance by Deputy Marshals Brown and Roberts, neither of whom could resist bedeviling the two Barkleys with jokes about "goatboys" setting out on "the Big Barkley Goat Drive".

The deputies did have other work to do, however, and their boss, Marshal Smith, was waiting for them back at the office. The two laughing men turned back at the Sonora town limits, to Nick's great relief. He and Jarrod were thus spared another two hours of their ribbing. The noisy goats were already quite enough to give the rancher a headache.

Herded into the village, these complaining animals were now merging with the existing flock. Bleating loudly with excitement and annoyance, they milled about, energetically resisting containment in the pasture Heath and the Levi boys had hastily fenced in that morning with leftover barbed wire. Circling the flock in a rising cloud of dust was a very unlikely group of drovers, both mounted and on foot.

Heath's shout carried over the _baa_ -ing mayhem, coming from somewhere out of sight of the women on the hill.

"Tommy! Artemis! Behind you! Cut 'em off - close 'em in – good job! Keep 'em coming!"

Hannah laughed and pointed, her hand on Hadassah's arm. "Lord have mercy. Jes' look at them go."

Nike had backed up, spun, and leaped forward to cut off a group of three goats heading for the barn. She needed little direction from her bareback riders. Artemis and Tommy clung to her like burrs, laughing as the quarter horse bossed the wayward goats back in line.

Driving the flock in from the other side was Audra, riding Nox with several small passengers. Hannah recognized Yukulu and Kono – and, of course, Malila, who would not miss a chance to ride Sitikiniwa, the flying battle horse. Malila suddenly jumped to her feet to stand on the back of the saddle, gripping Audra's jacket for balance with one hand, and pointing with the other.

"Me'weh! Me'weh, over there, four goats!"

"Malila! Sit down!" This alarmed command came simultaneously from several different directions – from not only Heath and Audra, but also Nick, Jarrod, Sam, Rivka, Avram and David. It so surprised the girl that she promptly dropped back down, eyes wide - then giggled as Yukulu teased her fondly.

"Hold on tight!" Grinning, Audra urged Nox into a dash after the escaping livestock.

Hannah next got a glimpse of Husu, who was shepherding an enthusiastic group of youngsters in a wider orbit. The cries of "Me'weh! Me'weh!" could be heard from all quarters, as the children spotted strays and chased them in toward the pasture.

Heath came riding into view now, as he flushed a few more goats ahead of him out of a stand of oak trees. He shouted orders and encouragement, waving his hat and guiding Charger with his knees.

The stallion was clearly pleased to be back at work. In Charger's mind, miniature cattle were better than no cattle at all, and cutting these strange creatures presented an interesting challenge. He snorted and sprinted around the periphery of the flock with gusto, showing off for the mares, his tail flying like a flag.

"Boys! Get on that gate and close 'em in!" Heath hollered.

Avram and David jumped down to close the makeshift gate behind the last of the goats, and Heath laughed as his dusty crew of drovers - and their spectators - sent up a cheer.

Still chuckling, Heath turned to see his brothers' eyes on him, their gaze affectionate but intense. Gravity settled quickly once again over him; his smile remained, but the weight of his feelings showed in his expression. He had no doubt his brothers could sense it too.

 _I knew this day was coming. No sense trying to shuffle around it._

He wiped his brow and straightened up, wincing as he rolled his stiff shoulders and pulled in an aching lungful of air.

 _A little easier, each day. Not ever as much as I want, but easier._

He glanced over to Rivka. Smiling, she waved to Heath from where she perched companionably between Mikey and Sam; Avram and David had already clambered back up to join them. Heath raised his hat in answer, and let go the breath he was holding, along with a great deal of tension.

 _Lord have mercy. Just look at them._

 _Look at **us**. _

_Survivors._

He inhaled again and closed his eyes. He listened, as he had gotten in the habit of doing lately; listened past the sound and movement of his mind and the world around him, seeking that hoped-for inner silence. Sometimes he could find it. This morning, it had eluded him, and he had had a rough few hours. Now, though…the voices calling _Me'weh_ and the bleating of goats receded. In the quiet, beyond the quiet, came a memory of singing, and the beat of a drum.

 _We give thanks for the warriors and exiles who have come back to us,_

 _and those who stood by us in the face of death._

 _We honor the memory of so many we have lost._

 _All our mothers, all our fathers,_

 _Grandfather Sky, Grandmother Earth,_

 _Bless these ones who seek into the darkness._

 _Heal them and bring them safely home._

 _Blessings that come from the darkness,_ he thought, nodding to the remembered rhythm _._ Opening his eyes, he took in the sight of his friends, his family, and his love. _They are that. Blessings, all of them._

He wheeled Charger and loped over to where his brothers were mounted, reining in close beside Nick. Charger greeted his barn-mates Jingo and Coco with some friendly shoving of noses.

"Herd's all in, penned and tallied," Heath quipped as he settled his hat back down over his eyes. He glanced sidelong at Nick, wanting to get a feel for his current silent mood – though he knew well it could change in a heartbeat. He cleared his throat and tried another tack. "You boys have any trouble gettin' 'em down here from town?"

Jarrod laughed at that, thinking of The Big Barkley Goat Drive. "No, no trouble at all. Not with two seasoned goatboys like us."

Nick snorted and made a face that was both exasperated, and dismissive of the idea that such livestock could actually cause him any **_real_** trouble. He said nothing, though, and returned to scowling thoughtfully at his saddle horn.

Jarrod paused, his eyes shifting from Heath, to Nick, and back again. He gave them almost a full minute before he admitted defeat.

 _I was hoping we could talk about things together, but Nick seems to have other ideas. Guess I'll let them hash it out on their own, like usual._

He leaned back, exhaled a slightly exasperated cloud of aromatic cigar smoke, and held Heath's observant gaze with a steady, slightly amused look of his own. He reached into an inner pocket, pulled out a slim, expensive cigar, and offered it to Heath.

"Penned and tallied," he agreed, watching Heath dip his head to the flame he cupped in his palm. He waited until Heath looked up again. "A good day's work."

There was a flicker of wariness in those vigilant blue eyes. Jarrod caught it – he had been watching for it – but it faded quickly. It was replaced by a certain stillness: not a defensive mask, Jarrod sensed, but rather something honest, and deeply felt.

Something like peace.

Heath looked out over the settling flock with their youthful shepherds.

"Yep. A good day's work."

At his side, Jarrod could hear Nick pull in a slow, deep breath and shift his weight in the saddle. Heath was regarding them both now, somber but affectionate.

Another silence, and then Heath gave a soft laugh. " _Goatboys_. Huh." He shook his head and shot a quick glance at Nick. "Who woulda predicted that? Gonna give the locals something to chuckle about for a spell, I 'spect."

Jarrod agreed with an amused shrug, and then grew serious. _Time to get to the point._ "So listen, Heath, we're all heading back to Stockton tomorrow. Back home."

Heath nodded, looking down at the curling smoke of his cigar.

"You won't be rid of me, entirely, nor John," Jarrod continued into the silence. "He and I both have business that will keep us coming up this way pretty frequently for the foreseeable future."

The slight change of topic prompted a questioning look from Heath; in response, Jarrod gestured in the general direction of Sonora. "Montana's recovering well, but he's got broken bones enough to keep him from going right back into law enforcement. Jim Roberts was more than happy to step into a position that puts him closer to Stockton and our sister Audra. Jed is here, of course. The two Thomas boys have headed back to Jubilee to work with Frank. John's going to be all over this county over the next few months reorganizing and helping the courts finish up this massive prosecutorial morass."

He paused to brush some ash from his sleeve. "As for me, I have taken on this entire village as a client, it appears, and just as my brother Nick predicted, there is no lack of legal fronts to defend. Water rights, taxes, road access, even the simple right of these people to exist in freedom: you name it, there is a battle to be fought. I'll be busy."

Heath nodded again, somberly. "No surprise there. Good thing they have you." His eye swept once again over the pasture, fenced in with repurposed barbed wire. "No lack of fronts to defend."

"So," Jarrod went on, briskly, "to that end, gentlemen, I am heading back to Sonora, and back to work that does not involve goats." He touched the brim of his hat and gathered up his reins, aware that his tone had had the desired effect of jostling Heath's attention back to the present moment. "I'll see you both in the morning," he grinned, and rode off.

Heath watched Jarrod go, and then smiled down at the very nice cigar in his hand. He tried once more to find a posture that would ease the burning ache across his back, without success. Turning his attention to Nick, he took a long pull on the cigar, and exhaled with something like a sound of contentment. He remained otherwise silent.

"What?" Nick growled.

"Nothin'."

Nick eyed Heath suspiciously. Then he sighed, stuck his own cigar in his teeth, and kneed Coco around so they were face-to-face. He could feel Heath's careful, close attention resting on him like a physical thing. It made him edgy. He needed words, and movement.

 _OK, so **talk** , Nick. Talk and move. Say what you want to say. Then go home. _

"Dammit." He dug in his coat pocket. "Listen, Heath, I've been meaning to give you this. Thought you should have it back."

Surprised, Heath stared at the Deputy Marshal star, now cleaned and polished, that was resting in the palm of Nick's black leather glove. He did not reach to take it.

"Where – I mean, how – where did you - ?"

"On the mountain," Nick responded gruffly. "About a half-hour's ride below the old Indian village. In the snowstorm. Charger found it, actually, to give credit where it's due." He was taking in the conflicted, hardening expression on his brother's face as he spoke. Visibly tense and distressed, Heath made no move to take back the star, Nick noticed, but neither did he look away.

"Did you toss it?" Nick asked him, simply. "Did you lose it on purpose?"

"No." An emphatic response, low and rough with disquiet.

"Well, then -?" He lifted his hand again, slightly.

Nick's simple, blunt logic nudged Heath out of his guarded immobility more effectively than any eloquent speech could have done. He blinked and took a breath; his rigid shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. He met Nick's matter-of-fact look and offered a rueful smile.

"Well, nothin'," he conceded.

He picked up the star, regarding it thoughtfully. "Hard to believe you found this thing," he marveled after a moment. "And in a snowstorm, no less."

"Seemed like the right time to give it back to you. Question is: what are you going to do with it?"

" _Do_ with it? Turn it in to John, when I see him." He looked pained. "He doesn't need -"

"John can speak for himself what he needs," Nick interrupted. "And suppose he says he needs you."

"Oh, c'mon. He's got more sense than that."

"He's got a lot of sense. He'd be here to tell you himself, if Archer didn't have him buried in legal documents up in Sonora. He says he needs you, and I happen to agree with him."

"What? Nick, he needs someone he can **_count_** on, for God's sake, not some cra-"

"Don't you say that." Suddenly boiling with a volatile mix of emotions he could barely decipher, Nick leaned over and grabbed Heath's jacket, shaking him slightly. "Don't you call yourself that. You **_know_** better."

Their eyes met. Heath had not resisted him, nor answered anger with anger. Nick felt himself cooling down as quickly as he had flared up, and his grip eased. He studied his brother's face and tried to understand what he saw there.

"You know better, Heath," he repeated, more gently. "Don't you? After all this?"

"Sometimes I do. More than I did before. It's getting better."

For a moment, Nick thought that was all his brother was going to say on the subject. He had not yet decided whether to press the question, when Heath surprised him by continuing.

"It's every day, Nick. Sometimes every hour, even minute-to-minute. Some things I expect to be hard. Some things go easy. But then - some things that _ought_ to be easy can all of a sudden go all sideways. It's -" He broke off and looked away, once more studying the pasture of grazing goats. "It's _frustrating_. It's exhausting. A simple job of teaching two strong, smart, teenage boys how to string a barbed wire fence line suddenly turns into a knock-down-drag-out fight just to stay in my own head." A flush of anger sparked in his eyes, though it faded quickly to fatigued annoyance. He ran a tired hand over his face. "All that goddamned barbed wire," he muttered under his breath, scowling.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. A spiral of sweet tobacco smoke encircled them in the still, cool air. Then Heath sighed and raised his eyes, his expression as unguarded as Nick had ever seen it.

 _Ancient,_ Nick thought. _He looks ancient._

Even as that odd word crossed his mind, he saw Heath's expression ease; there was a smile in his eyes when he spoke again.

"So, yeah, big brother, like you said. I know better. I do. And I mostly win those knock-down-drag-outs. It just wears me down some days."

He hefted the star in his hand. "You helped me out this morning, though, Nick. No, I mean it," he said to Nick's confused look. "All that barbed wire. I just made myself think of those long days of you and me runnin' the fences. How we'd split up to cover more ground, and you'd send me off to check twice as much fence line as you." They both started to grin. "You didn't really think you were foolin' me those first few months, did ya?"

Nick laughed. "Not for long." The memory both warmed and grieved him, and he directed himself to get back to his original point.

"Listen, Heath. I want you back home. No secret there. But I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Jarrod. The two of you are so _alike_ sometimes," he groused, as an aside. "I'm almost glad I didn't have to grow up dealing with the both of you."

"Nick. Make your point," Heath prompted, amused.

"My point is this. You said it yourself, Heath. You and Rivka need to be together. You need time to get your mind and your body healthy again. You want to just work, be with your wife, and let things settle down some. Have I got that right?"

"Guess you were listening."

"You better believe it. Every word."

Nick was warming to his message now. "Thing is, you're not the only one needs a chance to recover. It was only six weeks ago these Miwok folks were a dying bunch of refugees. Fifteen years ago, all our father could offer them was a warning: a chance to run, to buy more time. That war isn't over yet, and you know it. They need more than time: they need to heal up, regain their strength, and then figure out their own future. They need someone like Rivka, setting up medical care. They need someone like Jarrod, taking on the legal battles. And -" Nick paused in his speech to land a heavy, leather-clad hand on Heath's shoulder for emphasis. "- they need someone who will protect and defend them, against all enemies foreign and domestic. Someone they trust. Someone who will help them start building and growing from the inside; help them get to where they can keep themselves safe.

"So I ask you, Heath: Who better to do that than Me'weh?"

Nick held up a hand, and kept talking right over Heath's attempt at rebuttal. "Who better? It is what you **_do_** , Heath. It is who you **_are_**. You know as well as I do you're going to be standing guard over this village, whether you wear that star or not." He swept his other arm in a broad gesture, pointing toward the quiet settlement. "They trust you to have their backs, little brother, and with damn good reason. And so do we all trust you - John included. You need to get back in the habit of trusting yourself."

"Last time we had this talk, big brother, you informed me that what I needed was to get better at staying out of harm's way."

" ** _Also_** true. Don't change the subject." Nick kept hold of Heath's shoulder for a moment, wanting to say more. Instead, he sighed, dropping his arms back to his sides as if the conversation had drained him of energy. Try as he might, he could not mask the gloom he was feeling.

"You're not wrong, Nick, on either count."

"I know I'm not wrong. But you're still not coming home with us tomorrow."

"No. I'm not." He spoke softly.

Nick stared down at his hands where they rested on the horn of his saddle, his jaw working. When he looked up, his voice and expression were once again stern and businesslike.

"You just get healthy and stay in one piece, boy. You're a husband and a father now, and much as I want you back home, there's nothing more important than that."

"I will always be grateful to Tom Barkley," Heath said in response. He smiled at Nick's look of surprise. "Yeah. Grateful. For raising up a brother like you. For this family."

He looked up east, up into the mountains, his gaze distant and thoughtful. "He didn't know me, and I didn't know him. But at the same time, he was more than just a name on a paper. To me, he was like that man who took the time to mark a trail up in the wild, not ever knowing whom it might guide to safety. That man isn't perfect. Maybe he's even made terrible mistakes. But what he left behind is still good. For the lost one who finds that marker, and follows it to shelter, that good is real enough."

Nick was listening closely, though his surprise had given over to a frown of puzzled skepticism.

"It was real enough to me," Heath continued quietly. "Saved my life more than once." He turned to face Nick, wanting him to understand. "When I first blew up onto that big front porch of yours, Nick, I was a tumbleweed in the wind, and Tom Barkley was just an empty name on a paper. I came there to honor my mother's wishes, but I wouldn't have stayed, just for that. I think you know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know that."

"Tom Barkley didn't know me. He didn't bring me into his family. But I do believe, for all of us, that our love and hard work - whatever good we can do in life – it doesn't die when we're gone. Your father's devotion is a part of you, Nick. It is a part of the heart of this family, who took me in and showed me a path I wanted to follow. Tom didn't lay those trail markers for **_me_** , but they still steered me true, and I'm thankful for that." He quirked a smile. "Grateful, too, that I had the guts and good sense to follow that trail. Got that from my Mama, I think."

"People often talk about the Barkley luck," came another voice, coming up the path from the roundhouse. Both men shared a smile.

"Mother," they called out in greeting, simultaneously. "And John?" Nick exclaimed, surprised, as they two walked into view.

They dismounted and hurried over to give Victoria a kiss in greeting, and to offer John a warm handshake.

"It's good to see you both," Heath said seriously.

"Last we heard, John, you were going to be stuck the rest of the day reviewing documents with Archer," Nick said. "How'd you get loose?"

"There is a lot of paper, true. On the other hand, I read quickly; and Phil is a legal monomaniac and a _very_ organized man. I wanted to get back here to help get ready for the trip home tomorrow. I arrived not long after the goats, in fact. I had to rein in and drop back some so I didn't end up riding drag and arriving filthy." He looked innocently at Nick, who appeared both exasperated and offended. "That is the proper term, isn't it? Drag?"

Heath was grinning and trying not to laugh. Nick, as John expected, was gearing up to deliver a strong rebuttal of **_any_** language that might suggest goats and beef cattle were in any way similar forms of livestock. Seeing this, Victoria cut him off and addressed herself to her husband.

"Yes, darling, that is the proper word for bringing up the rear of a herd, though that term is generally applied to cattle." She scowled benignly at John for his teasing; on some topics, Nick was just too easy a target.

John acknowledged her scolding with a smile and a hint of a salute. _Yes, ma'am. I won't keep poking that bear._ Then he grew more serious, as they had overheard a great deal on their walk up the path.

"You were saying something about the Barkley luck, Vee?"

"Yes." She turned to look at Heath. "I've thought a lot about luck, Heath, since you came to us, and especially over these past months. I'll confess, we were eavesdropping as we walked up here, and I thank _you_ , Heath, for your generous heart where Tom is concerned. More than anyone, you have helped lift us all above the anger and disappointment. I am so grateful for that." She grinned. " _And_ for the guts and good sense you got from your Mama," she added.

"Tom _was_ lucky, sometimes infuriatingly so," she confirmed. "In almost every way, from minor incidents to big things. There was the giant brawler who spotted Tom in a saloon and decided to pummel him, but tripped and broke his ankle before he even crossed the floor. There were the profits he made investing in steamboats, six months before the flood of '62 nearly wiped out overland transport. There was the winter he and his brother were snowed in at a rail station near Truckee. He was deathly ill with the flu, and delirious. They started playing poker with the other mine owners to pass the time. The stakes got higher, and so did his fever. He won the whole pot with a straight flush – and he didn't even remember it." She smiled fondly, and added, "He knew he was lucky, and he was always looking for ways to give back. It was one of the things I loved most about him. He paid that brawler's doctor bill. And he set up a relief fund to help families recover after the floods.

"Once, not long before he died, he was thrown from his horse into the underbrush beside the trail, and found he had landed on top of a locket that Audra cherished, and had lost weeks before. What were the odds? And what were the odds he would cross paths with _you_ , Heath, not just once, but three times? I keep asking myself this. _Three times,_ he missed his chance, and he still, somehow, is blessed with you. Somehow, through Hell and high water, and despite all of Tom's failures, you still came to us: an honorable, compassionate, lion-hearted young man; willing to bear Tom's name and build on his legacy; even help rebuild this village he tried to save all those years ago. Luck? That is far more than _luck_ , if you ask me. That is Grace and redemption; that is the kind of blessing of which none of us are ever quite worthy. If you are wondering what Tom might think of all of this – well, I believe – I **_hope_** \- he would be grateful. Profoundly, humbly, joyfully grateful.

"This, of course, leads me to another topic of interest."

"Oh?" said Nick. "And what's that?" He had no idea what was coming, but his mother's tone put him instantly on alert.

"The topic," she said sternly, "of Deputy Marshal Jeremiah Brown."

"Oh," said Heath. " _That_ topic."

Nick threw up his hands. "I told you. I told **_him_**. I knew she would figure it out! But now **_we're_** the ones in trouble for not saying."

"Jed did not want to trouble you, Mother. He did not want to bring it up at all," Heath offered quietly.

"Believe me, I know! He's been disappearing every time I've tried to talk with him, and he'll probably keep it up until we leave town tomorrow." She sighed in frustration.

"I am his boss," John said. "I could give him an order."

"No, no," she said, slipping her arm through his. "I can let it be for now. At least he knows I _want_ to talk to him. I know he's become a good friend to my children; he's a fine marshal; he's a son to my dear friend Raul. The right time will come. Talk about Barkley luck!"

* * *

 ** _Three months later, U.S. Marshal's Office, Sonora, California, April 12, 1875_**

 _The way you walked was thorny, through no fault of your own, but as the rain enters the soil, the river enters the sea, so tears run to a predestined end. Your suffering is over, my son. Now you will find peace._

 _Maleva the Gypsy Woman, "The Wolf Man", 1941_

* * *

Standing before a small mirror and washbasin in the back of Montana's office, Jim Roberts finished a careful shave and wiped his face. He was concentrating on adjusting the collar of his clean shirt when Jed Brown materialized at his right elbow.

"Jim."

" _Dammit_ , Jed!" Jim yelped. He spun on the young man. "I'm tellin' you, kid," he warned. "You better not do that while a man's got a razor in his hand."

"Point taken," Jed conceded mildly. He brightened. "Do you know, when I was a little 'un, I thought my name was _Dammit._ No, really," he insisted, when Jim made a noise of impatient disbelief. "That was before I learned to cuss, a' course," he clarified. "So finally I asked my Pa. He set me straight."

Jim rolled his eyes and laughed. "You get those two bandits locked up and tucked in for the night?"

"Yep. Well, Teleli and I did. They had a kid with 'em. A little boy they had taken from the family they robbed. He'd been pretty badly beat up and used," he added, trying to keep his voice even. "Barkley found him. Brought him back to the village, to the hospital. The boy's family was already there."

Jim's expression had gone dark. He glanced toward the lockup. "They did that?" Jed nodded. "How's the boy?"

"Don't know. Barkley took him to the village. Teleli was out patrolling with us, so he helped me bring those two -" He stopped, and bit back the words he wanted to use. "- those two _criminals_ back here. Then he headed straightaway over to the City Hotel to find Smith. Seemed urgent. As urgent, anyway, as Teleli ever lets on."

Speaking that thought stirred up a twisting of worry in Jed's gut, and he frowned, wondering what he was missing. He stepped back to regard Jim, deliberately trying to shake off the images of the day's events that seemed to linger like an evil miasma. "You look beautiful, Deputy Marshal Roberts. Do you fuss like this every time Marshal Smith comes to town? Or just when Audra comes along for a visit?"

Jim began to deny it, and then changed his mind. "Yes. Yes I do, Jed, every time," he confessed. "Gotta keep making a good impression, right?"

"Well, you'd best get a move on, or you're going to be late for your dinner date with the young lady. I'll hold the fort."

 ** _Sutamasina, nighttime, April 12, 1875_**

Silhouetted by the lamplight within, Rivka stood in the open door of the barn, a dark wool wrap around her shoulders against the springtime night chill. She gazed out into the dark with a worried expression, her eyes on the faint glow of a distant hilltop campfire. Behind her, a small boy lay bandaged and unconscious on a low cot, watched over by a nurse and his silently weeping parents.

Through the thin, drifting mist, the crisp sound of approaching horses interrupted her silent vigil. Two familiar forms emerged from the dark, riding at a cautious walk in the fog. Rivka exhaled with a sigh of relief. Her eyes returned to the far off flicker of fire, her face and posture more at ease as John and Teleli dismounted and came to join her.

"How is the child?" John asked in a low voice.

Rivka shook her head. "Not good. He is resting now, and breathing easier, but he may not survive. We will do everything we can." To Teleli, she asked, "Can you make a poultice like the one you showed me the other day? The boy has a very wide abrasion along one leg, and I don't want it to become inflamed."

He nodded gravely. He glanced up toward the hilltop, then back to Rivka. "What happened when Me'weh brought the boy to you? Did he say anything?"

Her brow furrowed. "Very little. He was speaking to the boy, as he carried him in. Murmuring to him, until he had him settled on the cot and we could start tending to him. He came to me, and told what he could of the boy's injuries, but it seemed to take a huge effort. Then he was gone." Teleli's dark eyes were unreadable in the dim lamplight. "Teleli, what can you tell me?"

"We rode out to check on some of the new roads and homesteads in the hills to the southeast. We smelled smoke, and then we saw Burke coming fast down the road in his mule cart. He had the two parents and the infant girl in the back. He was bringing them to the village."

"Burke…" John repeated. "Burke. Right. I remember. That scruffy fella who pulled a shotgun on Jed once."

"Yes," Teleli said. "He has been a good neighbor since then. He came upon three robbers attacking the family and burning their wagon. They ran, but they took the boy. Burke brought the family to get help. They were injured too, though not so badly.

"Jed and Me'weh and I went after the men and the boy. They did not expect to be chased. The mother is Maidu, and the children are mixed, so they thought the boy could be stolen without…consequence," he said carefully. "They stopped and made camp outside Tuolumne. We did not see the boy then. We surrounded them and called them out, but they were drunk. They tried to fight. Jed killed one of them. They kept saying they did not have the boy, but Me'weh did not believe them."

Teleli paused. His mouth was a tense line in his dark face; his brows drawn down with a look that could have been rage, or sympathy. When he continued, he seemed to choose his words with great care. "Me'weh…found the boy. He brought him out of the woods. He did not speak to us at all then. He spoke only to the boy. He wrapped him up and brought him here."

"How did he find him?" John asked.

Teleli shook his head. "That is not for me to tell. You must ask him." He tipped his head slightly to one side as he regarded the distant firelight. "Before Me'weh left us to ride back here, I did speak to him. I believe he heard me, though he did not answer. I said some things he needs to hear, but he does not need to hear them from me, I think." He looked significantly at John, who nodded slowly. "Me'weh is trying to come back to your world," Teleli said softly. "Back to what had been his world. Here, his struggle makes sense. It is... _understood_. In your world - not so much."

Rivka murmured agreement. "Yes. My mother thought much the same thing."

"Well," John said, straightening up and pulling on his gloves. "I'll head up there and check on him. You have a few spare blankets? It's chilly, and we might be a while."

* * *

 ** _Hilltop, Sutamasina, midnight, April 12, 1875_**

 _The Phoenix, Hope,_

 _Can wing her way_

 _Through the desert skies_

 _And still defying fortune's spite;_

 _Revive from ashes and rise._

 _Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_

* * *

Up above the patchy fog along Sullivan's Creek, the night air was utterly still. Overhead, the sky was clear as a lens; thick with stars, it was vast, curving, and cloudless from horizon to horizon. The sight of it made John breathless and dizzy for a brief instant, as if gravity had let him go, and he was set adrift.

Scout had no such difficulty. The tall dun gelding, as always, carried his rider reliably to his destination. John dismounted just outside the ring of firelight, loosened his saddle cinch, and turned to get a look at the young man sitting by the fire.

He had his saddle and gear beside him, John noticed.

 _So he wasn't planning to go home tonight. I'm not surprised, I guess, but still...that's not good._

Elbows on his knees, Heath stared into the fire with the look of a man making a life or death decision. On the ground between his boots lay the woven medicine box, latched closed and wrapped in a leather thong, as it always was.

John had spent a fair amount of time with Heath over the past few months, whenever he came through Sonora. Heath would often ride out with him as one of his deputy marshals, and John always made sure to visit with him and Rivka in the village. Each time, he was able to bring good news to the family, and to Silas, and Hannah. Heath was healthier, happier, and more at peace, to John's eye; Heath and Rivka were enjoying each other and working hard; her belly was growing, as it should, as the village flourished into springtime all around them. The medicine box, John was realizing, had become for him a familiar sight. It was always somewhere nearby, but for all that, John had never seen it opened.

 _What happened today? This horrible crime? Or something more?_

John untied the extra blankets from the back of his saddle and walked over to the campfire, deeply aware of the many unknowns confronting him, and hoping he would see the best way to help this young man he loved. Heath looked up to watch him approach. Given what Teleli had described earlier, that alone gave John some reassurance. He dragged over a log and sat down next to Heath.

"Puts me in mind of another campfire conversation you and I had, some months ago," he mused, staring into the fire. "You want a blanket? Getting a mite cold up here."

"Thanks," came the soft reply. He glanced sidelong at John. "Least this time I'm not sighting my rifle on you from ambush," he commented, looking pained.

"Now, son, I didn't bring that up as opportunity for you to feel like you're right back where you started." John could put steel in his voice when he chose. "You're not, and you know damn **_well_** you're not, so just get that idea out of your head."

Heath smiled wistfully.

"You think you are?"

"Right back where I started? No…not exactly."

"Tell me what's going on, son. What happened today?"

"Haja said to me once, right here on this hilltop, she said, _Hell is not on the trail, Me'weh. It is in you._ " He shuddered slightly, his eyes on the fire. "It is. She was right. I have to live with that, I know. I've been learning to live with that. Learning how to keep on living without either boxing myself into a coffin, or falling through the floor into…" He broke off and tried to take a deep breath; John could see the flashes of anger and despair in his eyes as he struggled to settle himself down. "I've _been_ learning to live with it," he repeated, tightly. "Come to terms with it. Then all of a sudden – like today - something happens. Something _happens_ , and I find out there more ways to stumble into Hell then I ever knew."

"You're a peaceful man, son, but you haven't had a peaceful life." He spoke gently, but his thoughts were racing with alarm at what he was hearing. He cautioned himself to slow down and listen. "She also spoke to you of hope, and love."

"She did. Hope. It is all there is, really," Heath said distantly. "But tonight, it's – it's slipping away from me. Slipping out of my hands."

John was quite aware he was standing with Heath at a precipice of which he had no personal understanding; he was a blind man looking out over an unknown landscape, one that Heath regarded as a place worse than death. Sitting there under that vast dome of the night sky, John felt an echo of vertigo; he found himself praying wordlessly, fervently, that he would find a way to draw Heath back from the edge and turn his face toward hope.

He wanted very much to know what had happened with those criminals to precipitate this crisis, but his intuition was insisting that something had to come first.

 _But what?_

 _Teleli and Rivka both seemed to feel I could help in some particular way._

As he mulled that question over, John found his eye drawn again to the medicine box.

"Can I ask you something, Heath?"

"Yeah."

"I remember an empty whiskey bottle, that night I found you sleeping out on the ranch. You had dumped it out. You said, as I remember, _I tried that. It didn't work. Never does._ What did you mean by that?"

"Drinkin'? Well, it's easy, it's quick, it's legal – and it dulls things. Get drunk enough, it can make what's in my head blurry, instead of so god-damned perfectly crystal clear." Another flare of bitterness and frustration tightened his expression, followed by a look of shame John found worrisome. "But it's all still there afterwards…and usually worse. I had to learn that lesson many times over."

"And what's in the box?"

Now John saw something that looked suspiciously like fear. Heath glanced down at the box, and then turned his eyes deliberately away. "Mushrooms," he said, tersely.

"Mm-hmh." John pursed his lips, puzzled. "That's the tea that Teleli made?"

Heath grunted in the affirmative.

"So…how did you feel after drinking the tea? Was it like being drunk?"

"No," he said promptly. "No, nothing like that."

"How, then? How did you feel?"

Heath lifted his head and looked out at the dark eastern horizon, remembering that dawn over the desert. The moon tonight was near full; at that hour she was a high, bright, white-silver ball, arcing downward to the west, behind them.

"I felt clear," he said, finally. "Quiet. I felt _quiet_ , inside me. I felt balanced. I felt better than I had in a long, long time."

"Teleli said you might need to take this tea about once a month. Right?" He waited until Heath nodded yes. "It's been three months since then. Have you taken it?"

"No."

"Why not? What's the problem? Or do you want me to guess?"

Avoiding John's eyes, Heath pulled out his boot knife instead and began whittling aimlessly at a small oak branch. He stopped to stare for a moment at the clump of acorns that still clung there. "We really have had this conversation before, haven't we, Marshal?" he said dully, and threw the branch into the fire.

"Yes and no, son. I get that you don't want to feel like you're sick and need medicine. No surprise there. It's not weakness to do something that helps you regain your own strength, right? Weakness is _not_ helping yourself for fear of seeming weak. You've worried your way through that before - so have I. So has just about anyone who values their strength and independence. It must be something else. What are you afraid of?"

Heath growled in frustration. "I've been gettin' by. I've been gettin' better. I'm afraid I'm going to wake something up. How it was, up in the mountains – it was worse than anything I ever imagined, and believe me, I can imagine a lot. It's all jumbled up together in my memory. Teleli has been telling me to take the stuff, but I'm afraid. I am. I'm afraid it'll make something worse. Afraid I'll lose whatever I have left."

"From what you're telling me, Heath, it sounds like that's happening anyway."

Before John had even finished speaking, Heath was gone from his side – _Vanished,_ John thought, _like a gust of wind_ – silently, but for a soft, inarticulate, animal sound of killing rage.

The boot knife quivered in the center of an oak about ten yards away, the hasp glinting in the firelight. John looked up at Heath, watching as he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and let his hands fall open to his sides.

"I know. Dammit, John, I **_know_**."

"Maybe if you kept ahead of it – kept up with the medicine – maybe then whatever happened today wouldn't have hit you quite as hard," John wondered.

Heath grunted skeptically. "Don't know about that."

"So what happened?"

Heath did not answer. He looked down at his hands, his expression utterly grief-stricken. John rose, and moved quickly to stand in front of him, his hands on his shoulders.

"Tell me, Heath." John did his best to keep the alarm he was feeling out of his voice. _What **is** it? Why does he look like he thinks he murdered someone? _

"They said they didn't have the boy. Didn't know where he was. One said they'd left him behind, back where they'd ambushed the family. _Nothin' worth keeping,_ he said."

His voice was low and rough, a flat monotone. John kept still, and let him continue.

"I knew they were lying. I could see it. I could – I could _feel_ it. I swear I could feel that little boy." He closed his eyes. His muscles were guarded and rigid as granite; his breath hissed through clenched teeth. "He was hurt. He was dying. He was cold, and alone, and – and -" He seemed to be struggling to breathe. "- I didn't know where he was. They wouldn't tell me."

He paused – and then he seemed to calm down. He looked John in the eye, as if finally resolved to make his confession.

"So I took one of those men. Jed had shot one of them, was trying to bandage him up. Teleli was trussing up another. I took that third man, I walked him out of sight of the others, and I tied him to a tree."

Heath was looking nauseated. Swallowing convulsively, he grimly forced himself to meet John's concerned gaze and keep talking.

"I - hurt him," he gritted out. "Let him know I was going to keep on hurting him until he told me where that boy was. I was out of my mind."

"Heath," John said soberly. "Neither of those two criminals in the lockup have a scratch on them. Are you sure -?"

"I learned a few things from Linceul," he said flatly, his eyes back on the ground. "Learned things no human being should ever know. But I never – I've never –- _God_ -" He swallowed again, and raised an arm to his mouth.

"Did he tell you where the boy was?"

"No." Heath hesitated, as though surprised by his own answer. "No, he –" Heath met John's gaze, frowning. "He didn't know. Didn't take much to get him to tell me they'd brought the boy all the way to that campsite, so I knew he was close by. I spotted some signs…a print, some broken twigs…I left the man there, and tracked after the boy.

"He wasn't too far away, but he'd hid himself pretty good in some rocks. I think he dragged himself out of the camp as soon as we had engaged. He was so beat up, his clothes were all torn – he was so scared. God, John, he was so scared." His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"The boy musta gotten hold of one of their side arms when he got loose. He was barely strong enough to hold it up. He managed to pull the hammer back on the gun, though. Shaking like a leaf, but he had it pointed right at me.

"I could hear Jed and Teleli coming our way. I asked him to give me the gun. Kept moving toward him slow, tellin' him he'd be safe, that his family was safe. _Please,_ I said. _Please, give me the gun. I won't hurt you._ But my head was full of crazy thoughts. I was lookin' down the barrel of that gun and remembering every little lesson Linceul ever had for me. Thinkin' that what he did to me, I could do to that man."

Grief, and anger; John felt the sickening weight of it in his chest. He knew, with bleak certainty, what Heath would say next.

"And then…?" he said, almost a whisper.

"And then…all I wanted was for that kid to pull the trigger and just put me down."

Heath straightened up and set his jaw, as if determined now to bear up through remorse and exhaustion until he had given a full accounting. What he said next, however, took John completely by surprise.

"And he did. Aimed that pistol right at my face and pulled the trigger."

For a moment, John was silent with shock. Then -

"What...?"

"Misfire, I guess. He dropped the pistol – and then it went off. We just stared at each other, me and that kid. Like the sound of it woke us up. Like he was seeing me for the first time." A faint, wondering smile crinkled his eyes. "He looked so relieved I wasn't dead. I remember that."

"And you, Heath?" John asked. "Were you relieved?"

Heath did not answer right away. He looked instead past John, toward the village below. "Yes," he said, after a moment, and John could sense no uncertainty in him. "Yes," he repeated, more strongly. "I was."

"I have a few more questions, Deputy," John rapped out crisply, deliberately calling for Heath's full attention.

"Sir," he responded, automatically.

"Now. As I said, neither man in the lockup has any visible injuries. Teleli confirmed the man you tied to a tree was frightened out of his wits, but he never cried out, nor did he say that he had been harmed in any way. I want you to think carefully, Heath. Did you actually _hurt_ that lowlife piece of garbage – excuse me, that _alleged felon_ \- or did you just scare the bejeezus out of him?"

Heath looked down at his hands again, frowning in his effort to see events clearly. "One time, I did," he concluded, after a moment. "After that, no."

"Seems to me you wouldn't have had time for much more than that. From what I hear, you were off and tracking after that kid pretty damn quick."

"Maybe so…but I wonder what I would have done if he hadn't caved so quick. Or if I hadn't spotted the boy's trail."

"I'd lay money you'd listen to your gut, Heath. I haven't seen it fail you yet."

John regarded him seriously, as yet unconvinced that Heath was back on solid ground. _He's trying to come back to your world,_ Teleli had said.

"Listen up. You're damned right to be wary, Deputy."

Heath stiffened a bit at his sharp tone of voice. The blue eyes focused and snapped to his, and John nodded, holding his gaze. " ** _Very_** wary. That is a slippery slope to bad, **_bad_** things. You know that better than most, young man, and you do right to pay attention to that sick feeling in your stomach."

Heath raised an eyebrow at that. He was listening, John sensed. _Listening, and thinking. Active, not passive._

"Do you think, Deputy, that you are the first lawman ever to face that decision - either in thought or deed - particularly if there's an innocent life at stake? Do you think I have never been in that situation? Or Frank?"

"No, sir."

"And do you think that we have always, and in every instance, comported ourselves like unimpeachable officers and gentlemen?"

Heath began to grin, slightly, as his time with Frank Sawyer offered him several ungentlemanly memories. "No, sir," he answered.

"Very good. I'm glad we can see eye to eye on that." John drew himself up and leveled a stern gray stare at Heath, who was watching him closely. "Unimpeachable is always the standard, however. If you ever pull a stunt like that again – on duty or off - you're going to hear it from me, son, you understand me?"

"Yes. Yes, sir."

John heaved a deep sigh, feeling the ache of the evening's tension in all of his muscles. "So now what?" he wondered aloud.

Heath sighed as well, pushed his hat to the back of his head, and walked over to retrieve his boot knife. Returning to stand by John, he stared down at the medicine box. The blade spun in his hand with the unconscious ease of lifelong familiarity.

"Guess I ought to take my medicine," he said simply. "I'll tell you, though, if it helps like it did then – if it keeps helping like that – I'm going to feel like a plumb fool for avoiding it all this time."

John clapped him on the back. "I'll be hoping for that, then, Heath. Praying you come home feeling foolish." It eased his heart to see Heath laugh. He gave his shoulder a squeeze as they returned to the campfire. "You want me to stay, or are you going to call in those three Ghost Dancers to keep you company? They've been hovering out there just beyond the trees."

"You have a good eye, Marshal." Heath gave him a grateful look. "I'll be all right. I think you ought to bed down somewhere a bit more comfortable tonight."

* * *

 ** _Epilogue_**

 _A huntsman bold is Master Death,_

 _And reckless doth he ride,_

 _And terror's hounds with bleeding fangs_

 _Go baying at his side;_

 _The hunt is up, the horn is loud_

 _By plain and covert side,_

 _And we must run alone, alone,_

 _When Death abroad doth ride._

 _But idle 'tis to crouch in fear,_

 _Since death will find you out;_

 _Then up and hold your head erect,_

 _And pace the wood about,_

 _And swim the stream, and leap the wall,_

 _And race the starry mead,_

 _Nor feel the bright teeth in your flank_

 _Till they be there indeed._

 _For in the secret hearts of men_

 _Are peace and joy at one._

 _There is a pleasant land where stalks_

 _No darkness in the sun,_

 _And through the arches of the wood_

 _Do break, like silver foam,_

 _Young laughter, and the noise of flutes,_

 _And voices singing home._

 _Sylvia Lynd, "Hunting Song"_

* * *

 **Barkley Ranch, May 28, 1875**

* * *

"Hannah, here they come!" Audra called from the paddock, the moment she spotted the small carriage approaching from the southeast. Hannah looked up from where she knelt in the garden, and then jumped to her feet, smiling from ear to ear.

"Silas!"

Hannah hurried around to the front porch of her cabin, where Silas was wont to relax in a rocking chair whenever he had time off. He had set down his glass of lemonade, and was already on his feet, shading his eyes to look down the wagon track.

"I see them," he said, with a brilliant smile. "I see them - they're going to be thirsty, and hungry, and Dr. Rivka, she's carrying, she'll need to sit and put her feet up, I'm sure." He turned to go inside.

Hannah stopped him in his tracks with one upheld hand. "You just stay out of my kitchen right now, Silas. I'll have everything ready. You sit yourself down."

As she washed up and readied her welcome, Hannah smiled and sang and watched the carriage make its way over the undulating foothills road. They slowed and then stopped as Audra galloped up to greet them by the new barn and paddocks. Hannah could see Heath pointing out all the new horses to Rivka, including three beautiful Friesian purebreds who graced the paddock nearest the barn.

Of the three, one was a magnificent, enormous black stallion who was already prancing and whinnying a challenge to Charger. The bay was tethered with Nike behind the carriage, and he was visibly annoyed with his inability to respond to the black's provocation.

The other two Friesians were glossy black mares, both pregnant, and both due to foal within weeks. Audra had received the three horses as an extravagant gift of gratitude from Ilsa's family in upstate New York.

With the couple's permission, several months ago, Audra had undertaken to contact both Peter and Ilsa's estranged families, and send them news of the couple's well-being and the arrival of their baby daughter. The response had been immediate and heartfelt, from both families, though Ilsa's family, being quite wealthy, also produced an impressive material response. Two violins and a cello – each worth a fortune - arrived in Sonora, delivered personally and in elegant style by a long-time trusted retainer of Ilsa's parents; he delivered, as well, letters and tokens of affection from members of both families. He then traveled on to Stockton, stunning Audra with the gift of three horses from their finest Friesian bloodline.

 _Imagine the joy,_ Hannah mused. _They must have thought those two young ones lost, after all those months. They had their differences; still do, most likely, but such a blessing to see them reach out to each other. And all because of Nox,_ she laughed to herself _. Nox is like the beautiful dark thread drawing the whole patterned tapestry together._

She came out to the porch bearing a tray of lemonade, fresh bread, cheese, and fruit. She surveyed her home - and her life - with deep, peaceful satisfaction. Her garden was a riot of green life. Audra was always flying through, breathless and joyful, between the horses, the Big House, and visits with her handsome Deputy Marshal. Jarrod was a less frequent visitor; he would go slow, though, when he sat with her; he would think and talk, and always make time to visit Leah and Rachael. Nick, never slow or quiet, had been a near-daily presence, especially when they had first come back from Sonora. He had built for Hannah a lovely trellis for climbing vines; a small, sturdy chicken coop in back with a fenced in yard; he had even added on an attached pump-house and a wash-house. He hovered, at times. More than once, she had had to shoo him off to do his own work, most recently by mentioning that he might be needed to help her with dressmaking.

Victoria and John did come by on their rides together, though Hannah visited with them more often in their own grand home. Victoria and Silas communicated by some unspoken code, Hannah was certain, and she would amuse herself trying to decipher it. Of one thing she was sure: Victoria would always invite Hannah to dine with them when Silas wanted to impress with some dish that he had prepared. Hannah was never disappointed.

Silas had come to spend most of his leisure time with Hannah. He was older than she, though neither of them knew by exactly how much. Neither had any known blood family, the long-ago result of the auction block and the flight from slavery. They could talk about that together; they could laugh and weep, and consider unanswerable questions. She welcomed him, she fussed over him, and mostly forbade him to work, as if he were an aging honored uncle visiting for the holidays.

Silas had been with the Barkleys for a long time, she knew, and she did believe they loved him. He had been in their employ, though, for all of that time, and it seemed to her that made a difference.

 _Perhaps it shouldn't make a difference, but it does. I was free, with my family of Leah and Rachael. I am free, with my boy Heath. I did not trade my work for room and board. I am free._

She had thought about that, over the months, as she welcomed Silas to her home. He was free, with her. She saw that she would, in the end, be his family. Her home would become his home.

 _I know sure the Barkleys want to be that for him, but his pride, and their hire of him, will always stand in the way. Of the Barkleys,_ _she thought_ _, only Heath can step around that wall, for lack of all those years of hiring the man._ _With me, with Heath, Silas comes as a free man_ _,_ _as family. No deal, no contract, no terms to be met. I will take care of him when he's old, just as Heath and Rivka will take care of me. The Barkleys will always love him and be there for him, but I will be his home, and that is a blessing for us both._

Heath had clucked the carriage horse back into motion, and they rolled up toward her cabin. Audra trotted alongside, looking as brilliantly happy as Hannah had ever seen her.

 _And oh, look at Rivka. Don't she look so beautiful. Full of life. And my Heath…yes, there you are, my child. There is that joy. I see you. I see you. Welcome home._


	142. Chapter 141 - Seasons

_I saw old Autumn in the misty morn  
_

 _Stand shadowless_

 _like Silence,_  
 _Listening  
to silence_

 _Thomas Hood, "Autumn"_

* * *

 _As within the quiet waters passing,_

 _Sun and moon and stars we view,_

 _So the loveliness of life is glassing,_

 _Child, in you._

 _And the fire divine in all things burning_

 _Seeks the mystic heart anew,_

 _From its wanderings far again returning,_

 _Child, to you._

 _A.E., "Benediction"_

* * *

 ** _Hannah's Cabin, late August, 1875_**

"Child, she's peaceful now. You let her rest. Go on."

Hannah came up behind Heath and draped a rough cotton blanket over his back. His shoulders were hunched with fatigue. In the low lamplight, she could see a few day's growth of beard and a world of worry on his weathered face. She gave him a little push toward the door.

"Go on, child. Just step outside and breathe the air. It'll do you good. Stay close – yes, I know you will – and I'll call if there's need."

He nodded, silently, his eyes on the still, sweat-beaded face on the pillow; so pale in the halo of her dark hair.

Hannah nudged him again; with her small hand on his broad back, she steered him gently away from the bedside he had barely left for several days. She opened the front door.

"It'll be sunup soon. We'll be having visitors. I'll put up some water for coffee, and get a little breakfast together."

She saw him take a deep breath and raise his eyes to look out over the misty, predawn landscape, his brow knitted in thought. The cool air spoke of summer's end. She could see the wheels turning, as he remembered the past days.

"Before you ask," she commented, "Audra took care of that lathered stallion of yours that you left tacked up and blowing here by my front porch. Charger is fine. He's a sight better than you, in fact - rested up and running the paddock fence, trying to start trouble with that giant black stud." She patted his back. "Go on. Shoo."

He gave her a tired, grateful glance, and stepped outside. Sunrise was still a hidden glow behind the hills to the east, just enough to wash the ink of night from the valley. That white shape to the south: that was the Big House, still dark and sleeping, though likely not for long. Light fog lay over the oak groves and pastureland all around them, silent shapes of green and dusky blue.

His gaze did not linger on the house. As a needle in a compass, his eyes were drawn north, to the cluster of trees above and behind the cabin. Hannah watched, unsurprised, as he drew the blanket around his shoulders and made his way up to the grove where stood Leah and Rachael's headstones.

 _That's good, child,_ she smiled to herself. _Go see your mama and Rachael. You ain't much for talkin', but no need for words up there. They can hear you._

She turned back to her tasks. She checked on Rivka, then stoked the wood-burning stove, turned up her oil lamp, and began preparing some coffee and breakfast. She hummed softly as she worked, periodically checking out the windows, and carrying on her internal conversation with Leah and Rachael, as she so often did when her feelings were strong.

 _Hadassah and Victoria, they'll be coming early, and Audra too, most likely. The men-folk, though, that's harder to predict._

Up in the grove, she could see Heath's shadowed form, standing so still and silent by the two gravestones. They faced east, Hannah knew. She could picture how the carved granite would glitter in the early morning sun. The top of each bore a variety of small, pretty rocks, mementos of visits from Rivka and her family. The markers stood at the western verge of a large stone circle and cross, oriented to the points of the compass. A medicine wheel. Over the months since he had returned home, Heath carefully chose and placed each stone, and the wheel gradually emerged.

He knelt now in front of the markers, reaching with one hand to adjust something on the ground in front of him. A moment later, he extracted a match from his breast pocket. The flare of golden light glinted on his wheaten hair and beard and briefly illuminated his somber, intent expression. He touched the flame to two small bundles of sage, one before each headstone, then stood, with an attitude of one listening.

The sky brightened. It promised to be an extravagantly colorful sunrise, the result of a string of wildfires blazing erratically all along the eastern boundary of the ranch. Heath, Nick, and John had been roughing it up there for days, working with a crew of ranch hands and neighbors to build firebreaks and get people and livestock out of harm's way.

Heath had expressly forbidden Rivka's brothers to ride with them to the fire line, saying it was too dangerous. It was time for the boys to go meet up with their parents in their new Sacramento home, in any case, as it was time to begin the new school year. The two teenagers argued and pleaded, but were ultimately overruled. All thoughts of leaving went by the wayside, however, when Rivka went into labor.

 _Then_ _those boys had to step up,_ Hannah remembered. _And they surely did. Going to be fine men, those two._

 _They were here with Rivka when it began. The three of them were arguing and teasing - like only brothers and sisters can, I reckon - over that crazy round house they're building. She's had her hands full keeping track of those boys since the men rode up to the fire –_

Her labor began in a normal way. Avram and David volunteered to go retrieve Heath, but Rivka insisted they ride to the Big House instead.

"Get Jarrod. He knows where the firebreaks are, and you don't know the country like he does," she managed, breathless between contractions. "Don't argue with me. Victoria or Audra can send word to Mama. I'm going to stay right here with Hannah. We'll be fine."

 _Yes, it all started out fine. Her water broke, and she was in hard labor by the time Heath came racing down out of the hills. He was filthy, sweaty, exhausted, and black with soot, and he just about ran me over trying to get in my front door._

"Mm-mm, no, absolutely _not_. You get your dirty self back around to that pump house and get cleaned up before you come anywhere near her. There're clean clothes for you on the shelf."

 _By the end of the first day, I could see Rivka was gettin' scared, 'cause she was laboring so hard and the baby wasn't comin' down. Heath never left her side, 'cept to bring her cool wet towels for her forehead and sips of juice and water. He was steady, and calm, holding her and murmuring sweet things, and her grippin' him when the pains came, so tight she left a few holes in his shirt – and a few in him, too._

 _The second day the fever started._

 _Audra wanted to gallop out to bring a doctor, but we knew Hadassah was on her way. The boys raced up-country to let the men-folk know there was trouble. Rivka wasn't in her right mind enough by then to tell them no._

 _Victoria and Silas stayed with me to help, and a better pair of sickbed nurses I don't think I've ever seen._

 _Oh, girls, that day was hard, hard, hard. Rivka is a fighter. The fever was up inside her, and the pain got worse and worse, but she never gave up. She never stopped fighting for that baby, even when she was burning up and in a delirium. She held on to Heath and cried to him – and laughed with him – and he'd tell her again and again that she was safe, and not trapped sick underground in that prison._

 _That talk was painful for the Barkleys to hear, seemed to me. Lord have mercy, it's hard for anyone to hear._

 _Hadassah got here middle of the second day. Heath had been doing his best to get sips of broth and sugar water into Rivka, but her fever was blazing, and the labor was getting weaker. We all knew that was bad. Rivka knew it, and I don't think I'll ever forget the look that passed between her and her mother. It was fear and love both; terrified, desperate, and deep as the ocean – and ferocious, stubborn grit._

 _Sometime that day the twins and the men-folk came on a tear out of the hills, and I made them wash up too._

 _Hadassah gave her girl something to stoke up the labor pains, which was a misery for poor Rivka, but it got the baby coming along, and fast._

 _That was good. But that was when the bleeding started. Lord, so much bleeding. Hadassah ordered everyone out, then, everyone except me and Victoria. Audra took the twins in hand and shepherded them off nearby. The men-folk had nearly to carry Heath away from the bedside – it took all three of them and Silas. Heath wasn't fightin' 'em, really – was more like he couldn't move away. Just couldn't. They had to make him go._

 _So Heath waited, out there in the dark in front of the cabin, still as a stone or an old mountain tree. At first he just stood there, frozen, listening, with his arms wrapped around himself. Silas sang and prayed with him, and after a little bit Heath melted a little, and let himself lean on John and his brothers. They couldn't get that boy to sit down, though, even though he looked about to drop._

 _Inside, Doctor Hadassah was in a battle to get the bleeding stopped, and me and Victoria were her soldiers, prayin' and jumpin' to do whatever she told us to do. Leah, my sweet girl, you know a little of what Hadassah must have been feeling in her mother's heart, deep in the fire and darkness of that battle. I thank God she was there to save her daughter._

Rivka stirred and made a small sound in her sleep. Hannah moved to the bedside to feel her forehead, glad to find she was cooler than she had been. A glance outside showed her distant lamp-lit windows: the Big House was waking up with the sunrise. Heath, she realized, was no longer in the grove behind the house. Curious, she stepped quietly out onto her porch and smiled to find Heath fast asleep in Silas' comfortable old rocking chair.

She put out her hand to adjust the blanket that had slipped from one shoulder and noticed a worn, much handled piece of paper, covered with Rachael's neat, flowing, achingly familiar hand. She tucked it safely back into his breast pocket. Hannah did not need to read the letter; she knew it word-for-word, by heart.

* * *

 _February 1872_

 _Dear Heath,_

 _Rachael is doing the writing, and I guess I'll do most of the talking, because I don't know for sure I'll still be here by the time they can call you down from up north._

 _Rachael doesn't want me to say that. I can see her face getting all stubborn like it does when she's sad._

 _She's been looking stubborn most all the time these past days._

 _She doesn't want to write that either, but she promised to write what I say, and I'm checking to make sure she does._

 _I hope I will be here. I want to see you. I miss you, my brave lion. I'm going to hang on as long as I can, because I want to hold you tight, and tell you I love you, one more time at least._

 _I never thought I would have to leave you so soon, Heath. I thought I would grow old watching you and Rivka raise up your own family._

 _We're all three of us orphans, of one kind or another, Hannah and Rachael and me. We wove together our own family. Rachael and Hannah are healthy as horses, but then, so was I, just a few months ago. Life can change in the blink of an eye._

 _Your father is dead, killed two years ago. Another blink of an eye I didn't expect. He was larger than life to me, when I was a girl. I want you to know his name, at least, and know who his people are. They are your people too, or they could be. He had a good, big heart, your father. Maybe – I hope – I pray - maybe that family does too._

 _I'm so sorry about leaving you, my son. If I'm not here to tell you when you come, Rachael and Hannah know._

 _Things were hard, sometimes, for all of us, but for me nothing ever was as hard as when you were gone in the war. The only thing that comes close were those days you went missing on the Tuolumne._

 _Every day I thank God, and I thank your scrappy, stubborn heart, for finding your way back home to me. To us._

 _Life could be brutal hard, but loving you, Heath, and loving this family, that was easy. It was the best thing I ever did in my life. No contest. And no regrets._

 _I wish I could meet Rivka and see you get married. I wish I could be there to hold your babies and weep like a happy fool, but it ain't gonna be, no matter how much Rachael scowls about it. I am sorry about that. You tell that girl you love that I will be always praying and watching out for both of you._

 _So if you do make it back before it's my time to go, I'll tell you all this myself, and I'll tuck this letter away with Rachael's ring, so I can be there to give you my love when your wedding day comes around._

 _I am so proud of you, my son. All three of us are, Rachael and Hannah and me. We are so proud of the man you have become. We love you, and we bless you, now and always._

 _Mama, Rachael, and Hannah_

* * *

There came another soft sound of waking: a faint coo, and a whimper. Hannah leaned over and smiled at the sight: a perfect, petite baby girl; wrapped in a blanket and snuggled high up on Heath's shoulder, her face hidden against his neck. Lamplight spilled out from the cabin; the warm, mahogany shine of the baby's dark brown hair seemed to glow against his rough blonde beard. Her small body rose and fell with her father's slow, deep breath; Hannah imagined the baby was listening to the steady thrum of his strong heart.

One tiny fist, Hannah could see, had a tight grip on Heath's hair at the nape of his neck. The other had found its way to her mouth. The infant cooed again as she sucked on her knuckles. Her dark eyes blinked open.

"You're hungry, little one," Hannah whispered. "Your mama's had a rough few days, and she ain't all the way well yet, but she has what you're wanting. You c'mon with me."

Heath woke as Hannah lifted the tiny, softly breathing baby from his chest. He studied her face briefly, but seeing no new worry there, he returned her smile. She bent down and kissed his cheek.

"You go back to sleep while you can, child. Right now this little girl needs what her mama has."

He nodded, smiled again, and closed his eyes. Hannah settled the baby in the crook of her arm and regarded her thoughtfully.

 _You are a child of lions, little one. A child of love and courage._

 _Y_ _ochana_. _Rivka says it means 'God's grace'._

The beautiful baby was named for Hadassah's late mother, though John and Hannah had happily been debating whether she might in fact be named for one of them.

 _Yochana._ Hannah tried to pronounce it a few times, with mixed success. It sounded lovely when Rivka said it, but Hannah stumbled on that unfamiliar, back-of-the-throat sound. Even Avram and David had tried to help her, insisting this was also the proper pronunciation of her own name.

Silas had no trouble at all. The sound flowed easily off his tongue, smooth as butter, and he used it all the time now when he called Hannah's name. She had come to the fond conclusion that the old man was showing off.

 _Nachtmuzik,_ she considered. _She became Nox. I need a nickname for you, little one._

Hannah could vividly picture the couple in the rough covered wagon as they emerged from the pine woods, guided by music and their beautiful black mare. That bittersweet evening was almost exactly one year ago, Hannah suddenly realized, and a rush of emotion briefly blurred her vision with tears.

 _Life can change in the blink of an eye._

 _Yochana. God's mercy. God's grace._

"Your name is perfect, little one, but _I_ need a nickname for you," she whispered. "I think I will call you…Jane."

She felt buoyant with a peaceful joy as she turned to bring the hungry infant inside to her waking mother. The baby's petite face and active, dark eyes shone in the sunrise, and Hannah found herself laughing. "Jane. I like that. A name for mercy and grace, sweet child. Amazing grace. You are living proof of that. Let's sing a song while we go see your mama."

 _Through many dangers, toils and snares  
We have already come.  
T'was grace that brought us safe thus far  
And grace will lead us home,  
And grace will lead us home._


End file.
